romanstock
Kraken
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2023
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what a waste of my time. maybe 30 yrs of virginity didn't give me enough wizard skills to master my craft.
A cold grey edifice arose from a small stark ridge; a gloom leaden mantle covered the sky. King Ninus stared up at the dispiriting abode. A small retinue of ten followed in his wake, and therewithal two prison wagons of iron bars, so densely conjoined that the occupants were hidden within. The desolate Southern Fells surrounded them: a perpetual drab diffusion.
'This must be the worst castle in all the world,' said Ninus with distaste, foreseeing the lack of fresh vintage within. 'Wherefore would anybody live on this land?'
'He is most peculiar,' muttered Duke Moncey of Classis.
No herald or footman came out to greet their approach. Ninus began to wonder if there were any servants at all, for there was no close village to procure them from. His musing dread manifested as Lord Barnabus strode out from the castle portal alone, wrapped in a threadbare tunic of coarse wool, appearing like some rustic crofter.
'The King come to visit me! I hope ye took the course around the mire.'
Lord Barnabus, tall and slender as a wand, smiled with a countenance aged like desiccated wood. A white sea-foam beard hung a low crescent, swaying in tune with his step. King Ninus appraised him with four furrow lines; two more had been recently etched by Time's hand.
Lord Barnabus made an odd gesture, showcasing his long nails, then prepared to showcase his volubility. 'My hospitality shall not rival your own, but I have ordered a pig. Duke Moncey, you look well. What is that?'
'That, Barnabus,' said Ninus, looking back to the prison wagons, 'is the reason for our visit.'
'I must plead innocent.'
Ninus glared, already irritated at the prospect of the cuckoo's absurdities. 'They are not for you, fool. You better have some decent drink.'
'Eighteen years,' said Lord Barnabus without elaboration, looking at Ninus expectantly.
'Eighteen years what?'
'Perhaps eighteen and a half. Eighteen and a half years ago, you and I, Your Majesty, we shared in that special vintage of Leonlême: Melon Noir! My buttery has since been filled with the stuff. You asked that day to share with thee my magic, but 'twas magic thou gavest me.'
'Good.' Ninus exhaled in relief, athirst with anticipation. 'That is something at least.'
'Many rumours suggest that you lost a leg, yet I see you presently standing upon two.'
Ninus pulled his breeches up a fraction. 'It is fake, but it works well enough.'
'Fascinating.' Lord Barnabus bent down like a reed in the weed. 'That is a fine work. What is the inner framework composed of?'
'I have not come hither to discuss my leg. Do you remember your creation of the two horned-owls?'
Lord Barnabus' eyes alighted like a lighthouse. 'They were stolen from me! My finest ever creations - such craft and elegance, even I was astounded at what I had made. They came to me bald and stodgy; I made them ahorned with glory! And then, one day, after demonstrating them at a joyful fair in Pompadale; poof! I woke up to find the cage empty. They had been taken, my two horned wonders. I was wronged like no other has been wronged before, but perforce I moved my mind from grief to repose. Now, after so many sun-revolutions of faded time, upon this very day, the King himself arrives with two prison wagons, and recalls my mind to the woe. I see it now - you have done it! May the Spirit bless thee, Your Majesty. How did you find them? Nigh twoscore years I have waited to get my hands upon the culprits. I long ago gave up the search; the pain was too much for me, to dwell forever on the calamity. But I have recently bestirred myself to try anew, this time with a horse. Can you imagine? A horned horse, charging with head-spike through the enemy, dashing them all to bits. I shall call them: corn-horses.'
'By the light of the Spirit, you know how to vex.' King Ninus made a peremptory gesture and pushed his way into the castle, ordering the prison wagons within.
'My dungeon of teratology is below,' called Lord Barnabus, promptly following. 'Well-equipped for fiends.'
The sparse light within the castle revealed a shadowed hall brooded over by unadorned grey stone walls. They wended a path around a central table and made for a rear chamber. Therein a set of stone steps descended.
'Are you alone here, Barnabus?' Ninus asked, searching the shadows.
'I have my maids Harriet and Yasmina, and my cook Wilmaette. She is returning from market with the pig.'
The dungeon below was contrastingly well-lit and furnished, expanding the entire castle perimeter. Peculiar vats lined one wall, housing strange fetuses and swimming creatures suffused in a blue-light glow. Iron cages spanned the rear, empty save for one wherefrom a pale horse watched them with morose eyes.
'My corn-horse,' Barnabus commented.
Several worktables cluttered the expanse, bestrewn with sheafs of parchment, vials of liquids, birds in cages, green-glass polyhedrons, leather tomes, metallic curios and oddments. A muffled voice emanated from one of the prison wagons as each thumped loudly down the steps.
'Wherefore have you not simply created new horned-owls?' Duke Moncey asked inquisitively, looking upon the bird cages. King Ninus glared at the duke with admonition.
'I cannot get the right owls,' said Barnabus with a hint of repine. 'They are very rare, and must have the right skull to bear the appropriate weight and proportions. A regular owl will eventually break its neck, or have the growth revert into its head. Every moon I visit the markets of Pompadale, of -'
'Is there anything amongst your claptrap to put the prisoners to sleep?' Ninus interjected.
'Forsooth, I have just the gaseous conformation here.' Lord Barnabus seized a vial of lucent green.
Ninus ordered the wagons into separate iron cages, allowing an empty cage betwixt the two. One wagon ejected a weak, bedraggled man, blinking impotently upon the light.
'So this is the author of my woe,' said Lord Barnabus, jangling a set of keys as he locked the cage. 'I am almost disappointed.'
'You will not be disappointed for long,' Duke Moncey commented quietly.
'Do you know that the peoples of Granconet consider me an evil sorcerer? The evil sorcerer of Greymoor, I am called.'
Ninus ignored him and ordered one of his men to find the buttery, then ordered another to expel the green gas through a top slot in the remaining wagon. A faint gurgle emanated from within. Duke Moncey stepped forward to open the wagon, waving aside seeping green tendrils.
'Good Spirit, what of the Abyss is that?' Lord Barnabus blurted, advancing from the rear. 'My son has described them to me in letter, but to see one in the flesh: what a disgusting abomination! The physiognomy matches the reported character. Look at its jaw! How does it eat? It must masticate like a cow.'
'Step back, Barnabus,' Ninus barked as one of his men attempted to remove the prison wagon. 'And close the cage.'
'Wherefore have you brought to me a cynocephalus?' asked Lord Barnabus, his lighthouse eyes still fixed upon the beast. 'Assuredly this cannot be my owl thief. But then who is this other fellow?'
'This has nothing to do with your stupid owls,' Ninus growled. His rising temper slightly abated upon sight of approaching drink. He seized the goblet of translucent cobalt and gulped with relish. 'I have assayed for years, Barnabus, to convert a man into this beast. Now it is your task to achieve.'
'You wish for me to convert this poor fellow into that... abomination?'
'That poor fellow is a murderer sentenced to the gibbet. Spare him your sympathies. We must figure out how the cynocephali are created.'
'The hoyden had it coming,' came a feeble voice from the shadows. 'Women always exploit their advantages over men, then cry afoul when men do the same to them.'
'Now, now,' said Lord Barnabus, seizing a metallic wand from a worktable and walking across to the prisoner. 'That is the type of talk I would expect from the beast. We do not speak thusly in Castle Greymoor.' A zap of light emanated, stunning the man into an insensate heap.
Ninus finished his cup and poured another from the flagon. 'I will go over what we have so far learned. There are males, and females, and apparently they can even have little children, although that would appear to be a rarity. They are all utterly sequacious. They are controlled by the black-cloaks, but we possess no indication as to how. I have assayed to bend them to my will through a multiplicity of methods, all to no avail. They are resilient, but that may be corollary to their mindlessness.'
'Your creations,' said Duke Moncey amidst the following silence, walking along in examination of the vats. 'When they breed, do they keep the changes you give them?'
'Forsooth!' Lord Barnabus exclaimed. 'I am not merely adding a horn or accoutrement - any simpleton could effect that. My factitious innovations become learned conformations. See my corn-horse: the butt of the horn is already present. It merely must be taught to grow by minor corrections, which will become learned. To accomplish this, I took a mountain antelope and studied its conformations. The horn is a simple bone growth over the skull in the subcutaneous connective tissue. I implant a shred of this tissue into the host, and channel tiny adjustments of Power to promote growth. Usually the experiment dies in the process, but if the host survives, it will learn to adjust. This learning process becomes a part of the very essence of the animal’s design, which is then passed on.'
'Fascinating,' said Ninus listlessly. 'So then, can it be done? Can you turn this man into a cynocephalus?'
Barnabus turned with a slow deliberation, the glow in his eyes fading dull. 'The dark dermal surface I could render, though I do not see the purpose; perhaps it is a by-product of the process. The rest: the legs, the jaw, the hair, the nose, the eyes; it is a bit more than a horn! I could break the jaw, extend it forward with new bone growth. Yet still... there is more going on than just a simple extension. Hmm. I am perplexed. The minute changes are in their thousands. Impossible.'
Ninus exhaled in frustration. 'Make the attempt.'
'Very well. But I must work alone. I find company too distracting. Too much chatter.'
A rose-hued glimmer crept over the dreary moor as sunset bled into the night; thereafter the gloom darkened into a void. A chorus of frogs croaked a lugubrious drone, echoing the complaints within the castle. The pig had not arrived; broad beans and black bread were prepared instead, served by the ghostly apparition of a servant girl. Ninus imbibed himself into nonchalance, devouring the provender before he sought repose in the lord's chamber.
Upon morning he returned to the dungeon to see what Barnabus had accomplished. A foul stench greeted his ingress; the cynocephalus was dead, stretched upon a table.
'What have you done?' Ninus sputtered.
'I am examining the jaw,' Barnabus commented, without raising his eyes from a focusing glass.
'Do you realise how difficult it is to catch one of these alive? I could have had a dead one brought to you, if you had asked. What will you do when you need a live one to study?'
'Why would I, Your Majesty?'
'To transfer its blood into the man, or to perceive reactions to certain stimuli.' Ninus flourished an irascible gesture. 'That is what I did!'
'If only!' Lord Barnabus ceased his examination and looked up. 'Giving the man its blood will do nothing. I did perceive one reaction, however: the cynocephalus expels a higher rate of excrement; haply a hyperactivity of the bowel at the expense of the brain. It is likely I will need more men, Your Majesty. Hundreds, mayhap. This man will surely die. I could use animals, in-betwixt, to test certain methods. I will write out a list of the appropriate beasts.'
'And I am to gather this menagerie for you, am I?' Ninus glared at the cuckoo, his avian eyes flickering with a spark.
'Certainly not! Well, the expense would have to be yours. I lack the wherewithal.'
Ninus grunted and retreated from the dungeon stench, leaving the castle to seek fresh air. He looked out to perceive an early grey morning settling upon the barren moors, the seemingly perpetual blanket of gloom still overhead. Eighteen years had passed since his dream had been delayed, and now he stood upon a desolate wasteland, dealing with a cuckoo out of desperation. He had become bereft of ideas. The war was a stalemate. No information or knowledge pertaining to the welfare of the Northlands, or to the rest of Isadôria, had been acquired. He had commissioned no further statues. He had spent most of every year sitting upon the terraces at Silverkeep, staring out at the spread of land beyond, awaiting another clash with the black-cloaks. They feared him; they did not dare challenge him directly after he had disposed of their champion.
A speck appeared on the horizon during his brooding. He watched as it advanced: a white steed riding swiftly across the bleak grey-green landscape. The Royal Hand materialised, bobbing upon a blue tabard.
'Is the King hither?' The messenger asked upon arrival, his sweat-laden horse snorting emphatically.
'I am he,' said Ninus listlessly, proffering a hand for the missive.
'Apologies, Your Majesty! I did not know.' Ninus dismissed the man's attempt to dismount and grovel. 'There are urgent tidings from Sloane.'
Ninus' four furrows carved a levee. Sloane? He unrolled the parchment and read, revealing more than the messenger had been privy to. There had been an attack on Temple Island; a fire which had wiped out over half of its population. He almost barked a laugh. The world was already a mess - what did it matter if new Reborn roamed at will? As he read further on, his insouciance faded to a simmering ire: to Sloane he would have to go.
A cold grey edifice arose from a small stark ridge; a gloom leaden mantle covered the sky. King Ninus stared up at the dispiriting abode. A small retinue of ten followed in his wake, and therewithal two prison wagons of iron bars, so densely conjoined that the occupants were hidden within. The desolate Southern Fells surrounded them: a perpetual drab diffusion.
'This must be the worst castle in all the world,' said Ninus with distaste, foreseeing the lack of fresh vintage within. 'Wherefore would anybody live on this land?'
'He is most peculiar,' muttered Duke Moncey of Classis.
No herald or footman came out to greet their approach. Ninus began to wonder if there were any servants at all, for there was no close village to procure them from. His musing dread manifested as Lord Barnabus strode out from the castle portal alone, wrapped in a threadbare tunic of coarse wool, appearing like some rustic crofter.
'The King come to visit me! I hope ye took the course around the mire.'
Lord Barnabus, tall and slender as a wand, smiled with a countenance aged like desiccated wood. A white sea-foam beard hung a low crescent, swaying in tune with his step. King Ninus appraised him with four furrow lines; two more had been recently etched by Time's hand.
Lord Barnabus made an odd gesture, showcasing his long nails, then prepared to showcase his volubility. 'My hospitality shall not rival your own, but I have ordered a pig. Duke Moncey, you look well. What is that?'
'That, Barnabus,' said Ninus, looking back to the prison wagons, 'is the reason for our visit.'
'I must plead innocent.'
Ninus glared, already irritated at the prospect of the cuckoo's absurdities. 'They are not for you, fool. You better have some decent drink.'
'Eighteen years,' said Lord Barnabus without elaboration, looking at Ninus expectantly.
'Eighteen years what?'
'Perhaps eighteen and a half. Eighteen and a half years ago, you and I, Your Majesty, we shared in that special vintage of Leonlême: Melon Noir! My buttery has since been filled with the stuff. You asked that day to share with thee my magic, but 'twas magic thou gavest me.'
'Good.' Ninus exhaled in relief, athirst with anticipation. 'That is something at least.'
'Many rumours suggest that you lost a leg, yet I see you presently standing upon two.'
Ninus pulled his breeches up a fraction. 'It is fake, but it works well enough.'
'Fascinating.' Lord Barnabus bent down like a reed in the weed. 'That is a fine work. What is the inner framework composed of?'
'I have not come hither to discuss my leg. Do you remember your creation of the two horned-owls?'
Lord Barnabus' eyes alighted like a lighthouse. 'They were stolen from me! My finest ever creations - such craft and elegance, even I was astounded at what I had made. They came to me bald and stodgy; I made them ahorned with glory! And then, one day, after demonstrating them at a joyful fair in Pompadale; poof! I woke up to find the cage empty. They had been taken, my two horned wonders. I was wronged like no other has been wronged before, but perforce I moved my mind from grief to repose. Now, after so many sun-revolutions of faded time, upon this very day, the King himself arrives with two prison wagons, and recalls my mind to the woe. I see it now - you have done it! May the Spirit bless thee, Your Majesty. How did you find them? Nigh twoscore years I have waited to get my hands upon the culprits. I long ago gave up the search; the pain was too much for me, to dwell forever on the calamity. But I have recently bestirred myself to try anew, this time with a horse. Can you imagine? A horned horse, charging with head-spike through the enemy, dashing them all to bits. I shall call them: corn-horses.'
'By the light of the Spirit, you know how to vex.' King Ninus made a peremptory gesture and pushed his way into the castle, ordering the prison wagons within.
'My dungeon of teratology is below,' called Lord Barnabus, promptly following. 'Well-equipped for fiends.'
The sparse light within the castle revealed a shadowed hall brooded over by unadorned grey stone walls. They wended a path around a central table and made for a rear chamber. Therein a set of stone steps descended.
'Are you alone here, Barnabus?' Ninus asked, searching the shadows.
'I have my maids Harriet and Yasmina, and my cook Wilmaette. She is returning from market with the pig.'
The dungeon below was contrastingly well-lit and furnished, expanding the entire castle perimeter. Peculiar vats lined one wall, housing strange fetuses and swimming creatures suffused in a blue-light glow. Iron cages spanned the rear, empty save for one wherefrom a pale horse watched them with morose eyes.
'My corn-horse,' Barnabus commented.
Several worktables cluttered the expanse, bestrewn with sheafs of parchment, vials of liquids, birds in cages, green-glass polyhedrons, leather tomes, metallic curios and oddments. A muffled voice emanated from one of the prison wagons as each thumped loudly down the steps.
'Wherefore have you not simply created new horned-owls?' Duke Moncey asked inquisitively, looking upon the bird cages. King Ninus glared at the duke with admonition.
'I cannot get the right owls,' said Barnabus with a hint of repine. 'They are very rare, and must have the right skull to bear the appropriate weight and proportions. A regular owl will eventually break its neck, or have the growth revert into its head. Every moon I visit the markets of Pompadale, of -'
'Is there anything amongst your claptrap to put the prisoners to sleep?' Ninus interjected.
'Forsooth, I have just the gaseous conformation here.' Lord Barnabus seized a vial of lucent green.
Ninus ordered the wagons into separate iron cages, allowing an empty cage betwixt the two. One wagon ejected a weak, bedraggled man, blinking impotently upon the light.
'So this is the author of my woe,' said Lord Barnabus, jangling a set of keys as he locked the cage. 'I am almost disappointed.'
'You will not be disappointed for long,' Duke Moncey commented quietly.
'Do you know that the peoples of Granconet consider me an evil sorcerer? The evil sorcerer of Greymoor, I am called.'
Ninus ignored him and ordered one of his men to find the buttery, then ordered another to expel the green gas through a top slot in the remaining wagon. A faint gurgle emanated from within. Duke Moncey stepped forward to open the wagon, waving aside seeping green tendrils.
'Good Spirit, what of the Abyss is that?' Lord Barnabus blurted, advancing from the rear. 'My son has described them to me in letter, but to see one in the flesh: what a disgusting abomination! The physiognomy matches the reported character. Look at its jaw! How does it eat? It must masticate like a cow.'
'Step back, Barnabus,' Ninus barked as one of his men attempted to remove the prison wagon. 'And close the cage.'
'Wherefore have you brought to me a cynocephalus?' asked Lord Barnabus, his lighthouse eyes still fixed upon the beast. 'Assuredly this cannot be my owl thief. But then who is this other fellow?'
'This has nothing to do with your stupid owls,' Ninus growled. His rising temper slightly abated upon sight of approaching drink. He seized the goblet of translucent cobalt and gulped with relish. 'I have assayed for years, Barnabus, to convert a man into this beast. Now it is your task to achieve.'
'You wish for me to convert this poor fellow into that... abomination?'
'That poor fellow is a murderer sentenced to the gibbet. Spare him your sympathies. We must figure out how the cynocephali are created.'
'The hoyden had it coming,' came a feeble voice from the shadows. 'Women always exploit their advantages over men, then cry afoul when men do the same to them.'
'Now, now,' said Lord Barnabus, seizing a metallic wand from a worktable and walking across to the prisoner. 'That is the type of talk I would expect from the beast. We do not speak thusly in Castle Greymoor.' A zap of light emanated, stunning the man into an insensate heap.
Ninus finished his cup and poured another from the flagon. 'I will go over what we have so far learned. There are males, and females, and apparently they can even have little children, although that would appear to be a rarity. They are all utterly sequacious. They are controlled by the black-cloaks, but we possess no indication as to how. I have assayed to bend them to my will through a multiplicity of methods, all to no avail. They are resilient, but that may be corollary to their mindlessness.'
'Your creations,' said Duke Moncey amidst the following silence, walking along in examination of the vats. 'When they breed, do they keep the changes you give them?'
'Forsooth!' Lord Barnabus exclaimed. 'I am not merely adding a horn or accoutrement - any simpleton could effect that. My factitious innovations become learned conformations. See my corn-horse: the butt of the horn is already present. It merely must be taught to grow by minor corrections, which will become learned. To accomplish this, I took a mountain antelope and studied its conformations. The horn is a simple bone growth over the skull in the subcutaneous connective tissue. I implant a shred of this tissue into the host, and channel tiny adjustments of Power to promote growth. Usually the experiment dies in the process, but if the host survives, it will learn to adjust. This learning process becomes a part of the very essence of the animal’s design, which is then passed on.'
'Fascinating,' said Ninus listlessly. 'So then, can it be done? Can you turn this man into a cynocephalus?'
Barnabus turned with a slow deliberation, the glow in his eyes fading dull. 'The dark dermal surface I could render, though I do not see the purpose; perhaps it is a by-product of the process. The rest: the legs, the jaw, the hair, the nose, the eyes; it is a bit more than a horn! I could break the jaw, extend it forward with new bone growth. Yet still... there is more going on than just a simple extension. Hmm. I am perplexed. The minute changes are in their thousands. Impossible.'
Ninus exhaled in frustration. 'Make the attempt.'
'Very well. But I must work alone. I find company too distracting. Too much chatter.'
A rose-hued glimmer crept over the dreary moor as sunset bled into the night; thereafter the gloom darkened into a void. A chorus of frogs croaked a lugubrious drone, echoing the complaints within the castle. The pig had not arrived; broad beans and black bread were prepared instead, served by the ghostly apparition of a servant girl. Ninus imbibed himself into nonchalance, devouring the provender before he sought repose in the lord's chamber.
Upon morning he returned to the dungeon to see what Barnabus had accomplished. A foul stench greeted his ingress; the cynocephalus was dead, stretched upon a table.
'What have you done?' Ninus sputtered.
'I am examining the jaw,' Barnabus commented, without raising his eyes from a focusing glass.
'Do you realise how difficult it is to catch one of these alive? I could have had a dead one brought to you, if you had asked. What will you do when you need a live one to study?'
'Why would I, Your Majesty?'
'To transfer its blood into the man, or to perceive reactions to certain stimuli.' Ninus flourished an irascible gesture. 'That is what I did!'
'If only!' Lord Barnabus ceased his examination and looked up. 'Giving the man its blood will do nothing. I did perceive one reaction, however: the cynocephalus expels a higher rate of excrement; haply a hyperactivity of the bowel at the expense of the brain. It is likely I will need more men, Your Majesty. Hundreds, mayhap. This man will surely die. I could use animals, in-betwixt, to test certain methods. I will write out a list of the appropriate beasts.'
'And I am to gather this menagerie for you, am I?' Ninus glared at the cuckoo, his avian eyes flickering with a spark.
'Certainly not! Well, the expense would have to be yours. I lack the wherewithal.'
Ninus grunted and retreated from the dungeon stench, leaving the castle to seek fresh air. He looked out to perceive an early grey morning settling upon the barren moors, the seemingly perpetual blanket of gloom still overhead. Eighteen years had passed since his dream had been delayed, and now he stood upon a desolate wasteland, dealing with a cuckoo out of desperation. He had become bereft of ideas. The war was a stalemate. No information or knowledge pertaining to the welfare of the Northlands, or to the rest of Isadôria, had been acquired. He had commissioned no further statues. He had spent most of every year sitting upon the terraces at Silverkeep, staring out at the spread of land beyond, awaiting another clash with the black-cloaks. They feared him; they did not dare challenge him directly after he had disposed of their champion.
A speck appeared on the horizon during his brooding. He watched as it advanced: a white steed riding swiftly across the bleak grey-green landscape. The Royal Hand materialised, bobbing upon a blue tabard.
'Is the King hither?' The messenger asked upon arrival, his sweat-laden horse snorting emphatically.
'I am he,' said Ninus listlessly, proffering a hand for the missive.
'Apologies, Your Majesty! I did not know.' Ninus dismissed the man's attempt to dismount and grovel. 'There are urgent tidings from Sloane.'
Ninus' four furrows carved a levee. Sloane? He unrolled the parchment and read, revealing more than the messenger had been privy to. There had been an attack on Temple Island; a fire which had wiped out over half of its population. He almost barked a laugh. The world was already a mess - what did it matter if new Reborn roamed at will? As he read further on, his insouciance faded to a simmering ire: to Sloane he would have to go.
