Post by rousseau on Apr 14, 2006 2:47:52 GMT -5
Lightning cracked; it was like a whip, if you listened carefully - the very pulse of the electric current seemed to make that rather scathing sound as it seered the molocules around it in less than a fragment of a moment. Thunder clapped in the far off distance as the inevitable result. Rain began to fall... It was gentle at first, like dew filtering through a sieve until it gathered violence and began to muster strength. Offensive roars came instead of ominous rumbles as the result of immense flashes of discord as opposed to the previous brief illuminations.
Someone was walking through the forest. It was a thin figure, but masculine. He was well-dressed; courtly, perhaps one might say. Clad in tightly-knit trousers that fit snugly about his thin legs, overlapped by rather "so-last-century" boots, his trousers met his vest seamlessly and smoothly, leaving no creases. It was a red vest, a leafy pattern sewn in with subtle golden thread. Over his wastecoat he bore a characteristic frock jacket, reaching only to his waste in the front though extending several inches beyond that in the back as coat tails. His collar, sporting a vibrant emerald ascot, was turned upright to hide his face in the shroud of shadow it created, aided also by the precariously-perched top hat upon his crown.
Platinum blonde hair... nearly silver-looking. It flowed off his scalp like silk, pulled back into a ponytail by emerald ribbon. It seemed to be perfect in all ways.
He was strolling almost jauntily beneath his umbrella, antique-looking but seemingly brand-new. It repelled a barrage of rain that seemed to cascade endlessly from the gloom-ridden skies, riddled with the solemn grayness of the typical stormy evening. The little sunlight left that was allowing for some illumination through the clouds was depleting, fast. Night was setting, notable even through thick storm clouds.
The man in what appeared to be 18th century attire was nearing what appeared to be a clearing. Looming overhead was a tremendous mountain, though, because the forest continued a bit up the mountain side, the figure could only view the base of the mountain through the trees. Just faintly visible: an enormous wall, black and stoney. It seemed to jut out of the thick, compact, rocky ground like a dark iron blade. The figure swiftly came to a hault.
"Ah, look at zis," he hissed softly, his voice melodious and sweet - almost alluring. "Zeh manor of Scorpious re-opened... Again, eh? I suppose zat makes it a re-re-re-re-et cetera-opening, zen. Ah well, I am sure zee Count will be pleased to see me arrive so promptly..." The comment was intended to sarcastically indicate the figure's tardiness, one could tell.
"The count?" stammered a voice behind him. It was a short man of Spanish descent, speaking with a thick Madridian accent. "What are you talking about, señor?"
"Please!" cried the figure, draping an arm around the man like a counselor and speaking in tones of reproval towards him, "Monsieur! Show a leetle respect! Can you not see... zat zis is a fortress...?!"
The man quirked a brow. Indeed it was a fortress... he had just realized! But what the hell... The man nodded nonetheless, showing no compunction against making his confusion obvious.
"Well, zen! Calm yourself and compose your mannerisms wiz a little more dignity before I continue."
Once he was assured that his quarry was calm, he proceeded. "Well," said the figure smoothly, "I 'ave led you into zee clutches of one of zee most notorious criminals of all time."
"¡Ay Dios mio!" gasped the man, crossing himself vehemently, turning abruptly and attempting to speed away. He had barely turned upon his heel, however, when he found himself staring his would-be spectral scapegoat (for fear, one would assume?) yet again in the face. His face was revealed for the first time, milky and smooth - handsome beyond any recognition of reality. The somewhat elderly Madridian citizen was a bit taken aback, but comforted also by the ease with which the figure seemed to gleam.
"You need not worry, 'owever, for zis man does not concern you. 'ee is a wanted man only amongst... foreigners..." With a breath of relief from his quarry, the figure added nonetheless, "But 'ee is still dangerous!" Seeing the once again frightened and this time very perplexed expression cross the man's face once more, he added even further a bout of comfort.
"Fear not, my child," said he, which made the man frown somewhat: child? "Zere is obviously nossing to fear 'ere out in zeh forest where 'ee can neizer detect nor pursue you wizout exposing 'imself.... nossing to fear..."
After a pause lasting so long that it caused the Madridian man to quirk a brow inquisitively, the blonde-haired gentleman finally finished his sentence with, "Except, of course... me."
In a flash, the man's head, bearded and wrinkled with age, stained from the sun's relentless attacks day to day, flew through the air and hit the blunt side of a disfigured and gnarled tree trunk. Its hair made a rustling sound as it collided with a few branches on its journey down into a shrub located below the head's trajectory point. The blonde-haired gentlemen wiped his mouth, soaked in a rubicund fluid that seemed to coat his lips (much to his delight), with a conveniently handy handkerchief. Replacing it gingerly, he left the headless corpse and trotted almost jauntily toward the wall.
A well-placed hand revealed some sort of trigger that allowed an unseen contraption to set into action. A secret doorway opened, a decent few feet deep, allowing the blonde-haired gentleman safe passage to the other side of the wall before the doorway closed.
"Halt!," cried a staunch female voice. "Riddle me this, night-child," came the voice, echoing from the jaws of a bizarre creature which one from the world of muggles could only assume to be a member of the legendary Greek race known as the sphinx; a creature that was half lion and half woman (and in some cases, had wings). "what is...
Like unto a parchment 'pon which is scribbled
A manner of all sorts of things to which no end is known
Intended to be seen as a scholarly challenge
Reminds us, 'fore knowledge is pluck'd it must be sewn
And what's a Roman sire's wallet at full Lent Season
The waistline of a man who's beyond any reason
The sensibility of one who rubs elbows neatly
With the rough sensivity of an urge indiscreetly
Likewise an amalgam of both things together
Only if from the spitfire tongue
Shall yield the answer to the pressing question
What stands firm against the Shadows, unsung?
Answer... and be careful!"
After a moment's pause, the blonde-haired gentleman answered, "Nossing. Zee answer is 'nossing.'" Seeing as how our protagonist seemingly has a French accent I will point out that "nossing" indeed means "nothing." "Zee first was 'note,' obviously, zee second was 'sin;'" here our friend meant "thin," "spoken wiz a spitfire tongue, or by means of slang, we verbally arrive toward zeh word zat personifies all zat which may stand against zeh Shadows, unsung: absolutely nossing."
With a frown, the sphinx prowled out of site.
((Alright, Rob! Your turn to welcome your ol' pal back! You know who this is. ))
Someone was walking through the forest. It was a thin figure, but masculine. He was well-dressed; courtly, perhaps one might say. Clad in tightly-knit trousers that fit snugly about his thin legs, overlapped by rather "so-last-century" boots, his trousers met his vest seamlessly and smoothly, leaving no creases. It was a red vest, a leafy pattern sewn in with subtle golden thread. Over his wastecoat he bore a characteristic frock jacket, reaching only to his waste in the front though extending several inches beyond that in the back as coat tails. His collar, sporting a vibrant emerald ascot, was turned upright to hide his face in the shroud of shadow it created, aided also by the precariously-perched top hat upon his crown.
Platinum blonde hair... nearly silver-looking. It flowed off his scalp like silk, pulled back into a ponytail by emerald ribbon. It seemed to be perfect in all ways.
He was strolling almost jauntily beneath his umbrella, antique-looking but seemingly brand-new. It repelled a barrage of rain that seemed to cascade endlessly from the gloom-ridden skies, riddled with the solemn grayness of the typical stormy evening. The little sunlight left that was allowing for some illumination through the clouds was depleting, fast. Night was setting, notable even through thick storm clouds.
The man in what appeared to be 18th century attire was nearing what appeared to be a clearing. Looming overhead was a tremendous mountain, though, because the forest continued a bit up the mountain side, the figure could only view the base of the mountain through the trees. Just faintly visible: an enormous wall, black and stoney. It seemed to jut out of the thick, compact, rocky ground like a dark iron blade. The figure swiftly came to a hault.
"Ah, look at zis," he hissed softly, his voice melodious and sweet - almost alluring. "Zeh manor of Scorpious re-opened... Again, eh? I suppose zat makes it a re-re-re-re-et cetera-opening, zen. Ah well, I am sure zee Count will be pleased to see me arrive so promptly..." The comment was intended to sarcastically indicate the figure's tardiness, one could tell.
"The count?" stammered a voice behind him. It was a short man of Spanish descent, speaking with a thick Madridian accent. "What are you talking about, señor?"
"Please!" cried the figure, draping an arm around the man like a counselor and speaking in tones of reproval towards him, "Monsieur! Show a leetle respect! Can you not see... zat zis is a fortress...?!"
The man quirked a brow. Indeed it was a fortress... he had just realized! But what the hell... The man nodded nonetheless, showing no compunction against making his confusion obvious.
"Well, zen! Calm yourself and compose your mannerisms wiz a little more dignity before I continue."
Once he was assured that his quarry was calm, he proceeded. "Well," said the figure smoothly, "I 'ave led you into zee clutches of one of zee most notorious criminals of all time."
"¡Ay Dios mio!" gasped the man, crossing himself vehemently, turning abruptly and attempting to speed away. He had barely turned upon his heel, however, when he found himself staring his would-be spectral scapegoat (for fear, one would assume?) yet again in the face. His face was revealed for the first time, milky and smooth - handsome beyond any recognition of reality. The somewhat elderly Madridian citizen was a bit taken aback, but comforted also by the ease with which the figure seemed to gleam.
"You need not worry, 'owever, for zis man does not concern you. 'ee is a wanted man only amongst... foreigners..." With a breath of relief from his quarry, the figure added nonetheless, "But 'ee is still dangerous!" Seeing the once again frightened and this time very perplexed expression cross the man's face once more, he added even further a bout of comfort.
"Fear not, my child," said he, which made the man frown somewhat: child? "Zere is obviously nossing to fear 'ere out in zeh forest where 'ee can neizer detect nor pursue you wizout exposing 'imself.... nossing to fear..."
After a pause lasting so long that it caused the Madridian man to quirk a brow inquisitively, the blonde-haired gentleman finally finished his sentence with, "Except, of course... me."
In a flash, the man's head, bearded and wrinkled with age, stained from the sun's relentless attacks day to day, flew through the air and hit the blunt side of a disfigured and gnarled tree trunk. Its hair made a rustling sound as it collided with a few branches on its journey down into a shrub located below the head's trajectory point. The blonde-haired gentlemen wiped his mouth, soaked in a rubicund fluid that seemed to coat his lips (much to his delight), with a conveniently handy handkerchief. Replacing it gingerly, he left the headless corpse and trotted almost jauntily toward the wall.
A well-placed hand revealed some sort of trigger that allowed an unseen contraption to set into action. A secret doorway opened, a decent few feet deep, allowing the blonde-haired gentleman safe passage to the other side of the wall before the doorway closed.
"Halt!," cried a staunch female voice. "Riddle me this, night-child," came the voice, echoing from the jaws of a bizarre creature which one from the world of muggles could only assume to be a member of the legendary Greek race known as the sphinx; a creature that was half lion and half woman (and in some cases, had wings). "what is...
Like unto a parchment 'pon which is scribbled
A manner of all sorts of things to which no end is known
Intended to be seen as a scholarly challenge
Reminds us, 'fore knowledge is pluck'd it must be sewn
And what's a Roman sire's wallet at full Lent Season
The waistline of a man who's beyond any reason
The sensibility of one who rubs elbows neatly
With the rough sensivity of an urge indiscreetly
Likewise an amalgam of both things together
Only if from the spitfire tongue
Shall yield the answer to the pressing question
What stands firm against the Shadows, unsung?
Answer... and be careful!"
After a moment's pause, the blonde-haired gentleman answered, "Nossing. Zee answer is 'nossing.'" Seeing as how our protagonist seemingly has a French accent I will point out that "nossing" indeed means "nothing." "Zee first was 'note,' obviously, zee second was 'sin;'" here our friend meant "thin," "spoken wiz a spitfire tongue, or by means of slang, we verbally arrive toward zeh word zat personifies all zat which may stand against zeh Shadows, unsung: absolutely nossing."
With a frown, the sphinx prowled out of site.
((Alright, Rob! Your turn to welcome your ol' pal back! You know who this is. ))