Post by Richard Murdok on Aug 1, 2009 1:54:41 GMT -5
On the horizon, storm clouds gathered. If you were the superstitious sort, they almost seemed to follow in the wake of a lone figure who walked against traffic down the side of a long stretch of highway, the Avenida de Burgos, that led into the Spanish city of Madrid. Cars zipped past him, some honking for him to get off the street, but he paid them no mind. He had been walking a long time. Very long, very far. He wore a short, dark, dusty mantled coat, under that an unzipped dark brown hoodie, faded jeans, and a ratty t-shirt declaring "YOU CAN'T HAVE MANSLAUGHTER WITHOUT LAUGHTER," with an image of a blood spattered "Bob" Dobbs illustrating the point. The man was certainly handsome, not the kind that made women swoon and throw undergarments, but handsome nonetheless. Cold grey eyes that contained a ruthless intelligence, but if you got caught off guard by him you'd find them warm and inviting. A well-shaped nose and a hint of a smile completed his face, and sandy blonde hair of short to medium length swept back away from his face topped it all off. He carried himself with a mocking confidence, his right hand hidden away in the jacket. Slung across his shoulder was an obviously handmade leather messenger bag, old and faded.
The ominous sound of cawing crows overhead sent chills down those caught outdoors in Madrid, though they could not say exactly why. There was a tension in the little cafeteria as he entered. His mere presence seemed to cause discomfort to the patrons. He sat down at a booth and a visibly nervous waitress took his order of cocido madrileño, a chorizo, and gazpacho. At the lunch counter, a group of three men had begun to angrily whisper amongst themselves, mere minutes after the stranger had entered. It appeared that only one man had the wherewithal to approach him and voice the growing discomfort of the group. He did this by being very aggressive and calling the stranger a gringo mariposón, a cabron, a pendejo and generally just cursing at him in a steady stream. Though the curses were interspersed with a xenophobic diatribe and threats to the stranger's well-being, the man's rant did nothing to bother the stranger, and he waited for his food patiently. Oh, what could it be that had this fellow all in a tizzy? His friends would normally attest to him being a fine, upstanding citizen and all around good guy.
The stranger offered a deal. One game of cards. If the stranger lost, he would leave. They all would play. It was a game of Bullshit, a simple game most people know in one form or another. It's a great game for developing a "poker face" as it's built around lying and getting away with it. To make it fair, the deck belonged to the group leader; he ended up as the dealer as well. He checked and shuffled the cards himself. Five minutes into it, the stranger was the first to win. He had not lied at all. The other part of the game is luck. Where lying fails, your luck hopefully holds out. You do not need to lie if the cards in your hand match up to the sequence of cards going around the table.
The second to win was one of the member's of the group. The leader and the other fellow ended up in a stalemate and gave up. Something occurred to the leader. He asked the stranger what he would get, since he had won. The stranger merely answered, in fluent Spanish, "Nothing. Nothing you'll miss." And he smiled. The group was confused, but didn't press the point and instead left him to his meal. They left the cafe in a daze, unsure of what happened and baffled they had ever been so angry at the man who had done nothing but sit down and order. When the men left, the waitress brought the stranger his food. He ate in silence, taking his time. He had brought out a worn and tattered Gideon Bible from his bag and flipped through pages and scribbled words and symbols down. The waitress was refilling his water when she happened to catch sight of it. "Oh, that is not a Bible. I thought you were desecrating the Word." The stranger cut off a piece of chorizo and ate it. "It is and it isn't. It was once a Gideon Bible, like those left in most hotels. It was free, so I went ahead and turned it into a palimpsest. A book written on another book. I removed the words and now use it as a...journal of sorts."
The waitress looked slightly disgusted by this but asked him to see it. "You read English?" She nodded and he obliged and then continued with his meal. She skimmed through the pages, eyes scanning over words. Once or twice she fixed on certain phrases or paragraphs. "You are a novelist, señor?" He swallowed his bite. "No."
"I...I see," she said, the color draining from her face and her eyes scanning the pages still.
He took the book back. "I need you to leave now." She hurried out of the cafeteria, eyes wide and breath heavy. He finished the meal and left a tip of a couple euros. He stood up and made his way to the back of the establishment. He passed the kitchen on the way, the cook was absorbed in a novela on television. He entered the bathroom and searched the graffitied wall. Between a Kilroy sketch peeking out from behind a line of grout and the letters "OGT" was a small mark. A pinhole, really. He produced a long thumbtack and pushed it through the hole. There was a small click and six small blue lights formed a perimeter around the pin. He ran his fingers across them in a fluid, precise motion and spoke the words "Ut supremus."
The wall in front of him disintegrated in an area of about six feet by four feet. Beyond the newly formed portal was a set of stairs leading downwards into darkness. Before he stepped through, the stranger pressed his right palm flat. There was a crackling noise and the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air. When he lifted his hand, there was a stylized red palm print left behind on the tile. The stranger continued down the stairs and the wall rematerialized behind him, plunging the stairwell into total darkness. Each step was measured, careful but not cautious; caution bred weakness. He came to another shimmering bunch of blue lights just floating in front of him, at about chest height. He ran a finger through these lights as well, in a distinctive pattern. His words this time were "Sic subter."
The lights faded and he walked through the space they had occupied and he found himself in the Triangle Tunnel. But it was not what he had expected, and he found himself disappointed. It had certainly changed since he had last been here. It was supposed to be a cultural hub, full of people amidst the daily hustle and bustle of their lives. It was now a veritable ghost town. And he had had such high hopes, too. The streets were littered with the bodies of the dead and the undead alike. But the undead far outnumbered the just plain dead. Buildings were burned out, still smoldering (and in some cases, still burning) husks and the smoke was like a veil over everything. Obscuring everything. Turning the world grey. Shambling towards the stranger from out of the fog was one the creatures, clothed in rags. It was an emaciated shell of its former self; a laughable parody of humanity, it had once been a child of twelve or thirteen. It lunged for him with a snarl and he caught it by the throat. He was able to hold it away from any vital organs it might try to tear out of him.
Holding its head in place he pushed his index finger to the center of its forehead and recited a slow and steady stream of words; they had cadence and rhythm and the effect was almost like had hypnotized the creature. It went limp and the artificial life faded from it's eyes, its former master's magic leaving the body. He spoke one word and it was back. It was his now. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to do that very often. Dismantling the necromancer's spell had been too tedious and had left him exposed to attack. Stupid. The stranger's fingertip sparked where he touched the creature and he left a miniature of the red hand mark. He let the creature down, as it was now completely docile in his presence. "We shall have to get you more suitable clothes, little fiend. Those rags shall never do."
Richard Murdok took the opportunity to survey the Tunnel a little more closely, more optimistically. Off in the distance the echoes of battle rang out. "I can work with this."
The ominous sound of cawing crows overhead sent chills down those caught outdoors in Madrid, though they could not say exactly why. There was a tension in the little cafeteria as he entered. His mere presence seemed to cause discomfort to the patrons. He sat down at a booth and a visibly nervous waitress took his order of cocido madrileño, a chorizo, and gazpacho. At the lunch counter, a group of three men had begun to angrily whisper amongst themselves, mere minutes after the stranger had entered. It appeared that only one man had the wherewithal to approach him and voice the growing discomfort of the group. He did this by being very aggressive and calling the stranger a gringo mariposón, a cabron, a pendejo and generally just cursing at him in a steady stream. Though the curses were interspersed with a xenophobic diatribe and threats to the stranger's well-being, the man's rant did nothing to bother the stranger, and he waited for his food patiently. Oh, what could it be that had this fellow all in a tizzy? His friends would normally attest to him being a fine, upstanding citizen and all around good guy.
The stranger offered a deal. One game of cards. If the stranger lost, he would leave. They all would play. It was a game of Bullshit, a simple game most people know in one form or another. It's a great game for developing a "poker face" as it's built around lying and getting away with it. To make it fair, the deck belonged to the group leader; he ended up as the dealer as well. He checked and shuffled the cards himself. Five minutes into it, the stranger was the first to win. He had not lied at all. The other part of the game is luck. Where lying fails, your luck hopefully holds out. You do not need to lie if the cards in your hand match up to the sequence of cards going around the table.
The second to win was one of the member's of the group. The leader and the other fellow ended up in a stalemate and gave up. Something occurred to the leader. He asked the stranger what he would get, since he had won. The stranger merely answered, in fluent Spanish, "Nothing. Nothing you'll miss." And he smiled. The group was confused, but didn't press the point and instead left him to his meal. They left the cafe in a daze, unsure of what happened and baffled they had ever been so angry at the man who had done nothing but sit down and order. When the men left, the waitress brought the stranger his food. He ate in silence, taking his time. He had brought out a worn and tattered Gideon Bible from his bag and flipped through pages and scribbled words and symbols down. The waitress was refilling his water when she happened to catch sight of it. "Oh, that is not a Bible. I thought you were desecrating the Word." The stranger cut off a piece of chorizo and ate it. "It is and it isn't. It was once a Gideon Bible, like those left in most hotels. It was free, so I went ahead and turned it into a palimpsest. A book written on another book. I removed the words and now use it as a...journal of sorts."
The waitress looked slightly disgusted by this but asked him to see it. "You read English?" She nodded and he obliged and then continued with his meal. She skimmed through the pages, eyes scanning over words. Once or twice she fixed on certain phrases or paragraphs. "You are a novelist, señor?" He swallowed his bite. "No."
"I...I see," she said, the color draining from her face and her eyes scanning the pages still.
He took the book back. "I need you to leave now." She hurried out of the cafeteria, eyes wide and breath heavy. He finished the meal and left a tip of a couple euros. He stood up and made his way to the back of the establishment. He passed the kitchen on the way, the cook was absorbed in a novela on television. He entered the bathroom and searched the graffitied wall. Between a Kilroy sketch peeking out from behind a line of grout and the letters "OGT" was a small mark. A pinhole, really. He produced a long thumbtack and pushed it through the hole. There was a small click and six small blue lights formed a perimeter around the pin. He ran his fingers across them in a fluid, precise motion and spoke the words "Ut supremus."
The wall in front of him disintegrated in an area of about six feet by four feet. Beyond the newly formed portal was a set of stairs leading downwards into darkness. Before he stepped through, the stranger pressed his right palm flat. There was a crackling noise and the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air. When he lifted his hand, there was a stylized red palm print left behind on the tile. The stranger continued down the stairs and the wall rematerialized behind him, plunging the stairwell into total darkness. Each step was measured, careful but not cautious; caution bred weakness. He came to another shimmering bunch of blue lights just floating in front of him, at about chest height. He ran a finger through these lights as well, in a distinctive pattern. His words this time were "Sic subter."
The lights faded and he walked through the space they had occupied and he found himself in the Triangle Tunnel. But it was not what he had expected, and he found himself disappointed. It had certainly changed since he had last been here. It was supposed to be a cultural hub, full of people amidst the daily hustle and bustle of their lives. It was now a veritable ghost town. And he had had such high hopes, too. The streets were littered with the bodies of the dead and the undead alike. But the undead far outnumbered the just plain dead. Buildings were burned out, still smoldering (and in some cases, still burning) husks and the smoke was like a veil over everything. Obscuring everything. Turning the world grey. Shambling towards the stranger from out of the fog was one the creatures, clothed in rags. It was an emaciated shell of its former self; a laughable parody of humanity, it had once been a child of twelve or thirteen. It lunged for him with a snarl and he caught it by the throat. He was able to hold it away from any vital organs it might try to tear out of him.
Holding its head in place he pushed his index finger to the center of its forehead and recited a slow and steady stream of words; they had cadence and rhythm and the effect was almost like had hypnotized the creature. It went limp and the artificial life faded from it's eyes, its former master's magic leaving the body. He spoke one word and it was back. It was his now. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to do that very often. Dismantling the necromancer's spell had been too tedious and had left him exposed to attack. Stupid. The stranger's fingertip sparked where he touched the creature and he left a miniature of the red hand mark. He let the creature down, as it was now completely docile in his presence. "We shall have to get you more suitable clothes, little fiend. Those rags shall never do."
Richard Murdok took the opportunity to survey the Tunnel a little more closely, more optimistically. Off in the distance the echoes of battle rang out. "I can work with this."