DragoneRPG's Scribbly Scribble-do

[DragonneRPG Deactivated]

I do a bit of writing occasionally and I have a few I can share, I'd like to keep my writing separate from my drawings, so ... NEW THREAD.

First, a little poem for the druid in all of us:

 

On a midsummer night, under a bright moonlight

Among the brushes and between the trees

A whispered song rides the breeze

From the hoot of the owl to the wolf’s howl

Over the running waters of the rivers

And between the rocks under

The forest breathes gently, calmly

 

The stars shine against the ink of the night sky

The clouds float unseen, dim against the moonlight

Nothing but the songs of the green and the dark

The breeze brushing the leaves, under the light stark

A voice whispering suddenly, riding the wind softly

Telling tales of the woods and the song of trees slowly sing

As druids dream and ponder under the moon’s gleam

 

Silent contemplation rules a serene mind

Old wise eyes, the roots that bind

Decades upon the forest gaze

And ages old ears the song does find

Primal serenity, primitive tranquility

And old soul, one among the many

Between the trees will live eternally

 

Neither man nor animal, not quite primal

Silent druid slowly breathes in the midnight heat

Warm breeze blows, caress his soul

From the stone upon which he seats

The midnight stars he contemplates

The song of the woods, ode to his fate

[DragonneRPG Deactivated]

Next, an horror short story I wrote. That one's a little old and I consider it finished, even though there's still work I could do to improve it. I just don't feel like it.

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“The traveler comes at midnight”

Again and again I have seen those words, seared into my mind as if by the white-hot touch of an iron brand. I could not forget them in spite of my efforts to clear my mind and chase away the dread that has now taken hold of me, suffocating cast iron bars pressing on my heart like an all-too small cage, a choking narrow prison. Not three days ago I seemed fit to mingle among the more sophisticated of librarians and scholars, with a confidence that had been mine ever since I came to the world. Tall, slim and handsome, I cannot bear to look myself in the mirror, for the last time I gazed upon my reflection, it was not of Fredrick Bader the scholar but of a sleep-deprived man, whose appetite had been lost, and who could scarcely convince himself to have a drink of water. Large bags under my bloodshot eyes, gaunt cheeks sunken into my haggard face and I still cannot be sure if my eyes are playing trickson me, or I have indeed lost hair.

I sit alone in the library of my great-great-grandfather’s manor, an ancient dwelling almost completely cut off from civilization, a looming nineteenth-century mansion that almost towered over the dark trees surrounding its outer walls. It was more stone than wood and twisted, evil figures sat upon the edge of the roof like malevolent predators surveying the premises, ready to pounce. Despite its intimidating size and architecture, it was once a lovely place that seemed fitting of a lone scholar like myself, a man of taste who deserved to live in the most elegant of homes. Once … once it was … for now its dark hallways all seem so narrow and suffocating, I can barely go through them without feeling my breath leaving, choked by the tense feeling of loneliness and a dash of claustrophobia. I sleep on my favorite chair, an expensive, Victorian-era seat made of leather and the finest wood, the only furniture I am willing to rest on with closed eyes.

I recall my large canopy bed as if it was a long-distant memory of years gone, a time of calm and comfort when the soft, silky sheets would keep me warm in these cold nights of October, when the library was not my only safe haven and I was not hanging desperately to the crutch that was the fireplace. It had become the only source of warmth and light I relied upon, though I have little firewood left and almost no matches. I dare not return to my bedroom, for that is were I had seen the haunting words. I was sound asleep, lost in dreams of sophisticated gatherings with famous writers and researchers and of nights spent in the arms of the loveliest maidens whose delicate skin caressed me in a warm embrace. I felt the first raindrop upon my temple, barely taking me out of my slumber. Once more I was struck by the wet liquid particle, with a groan of annoyance. When two more drops landed on my face, I cursed myself for not having the roof re-done by a competent craftsman but when I rolled on my back and opened my eyes, I saw not water leaking from above but dreadful words written in blood-red letters upon the white fabric of the white canopy.

“The traveler comes at midnight”
 

Since then I have refused to sleep upon that cursed bed, in that cursed room. I wanted to believe this was not blood staining my sheets but nothing would wash away the crimson spots embedded in the clean white fabric, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how strong the solutions I used.

 

I gaze upon the grandfather clock, the constant ticking of the mechanism now so inprinted into my mind I hear it even when I cover my ears. Eleven forty-two. I shudder. In less than twenty minutes the traveler would come, whoever it was and I feared what he, she or it would do at the toll of midnight. I take my cup of tea and sip, no matter how cold it had became. Next to it laid my pipe and an empty pouch. I dare not leave the manor to buy more in the neighboring town, for just as the manor feels like a suffocating prison, the woods flanking the road feel more like a dark presence, a black void of twisted branches and rotting stumps threatening to swallow both my body and my soul and I did not dare walk along these trees. Not a day ago I looked out the window at those trees as the sun had finally set and I swear I have seen something prowling among the trees, though I know not if it was beast or man or even just a figment of my imagination. I fear I am becoming mad from isolation.

 

Eleven forty-eight. I glance at the mantelpiece, upon which rests an old urn, made of now-stained silver upon which a plaque reads:

“In memory of a lost beggar whose price was not paid, in the flames was laid.”

I cannot make sense of these words, I cannot understand whose ashes are in that urn and why it was left on the mantelpiece but I dare not remove it, fearing such desecration might bring misfortune upon me. I feel regret at not burying this old urn somewhere in the woods, away from my home. Somehow I have given in to the thought that it may have a link to the bloodied words I had seen on my ceiling. And what of that shadow within the woods? Could it be something or someone, surely the dead whose ashes rest in the silvery urn, seeking retribution for an undeserved fate, looking for a bloody sacrifice to wash the injustices of the past? It was in the realm of possibility and the mere thought of it shortened my breath and made my heart beat wildly as anxiety was taking over.

 

Another memory comes to my mind, of the innocent days that followed the first turning of the key in the lock upon the front gate, when I was bringing the last few pieces of belongings from my old home to my new. As I cleaned around the house and threw away rubbish, I had stumbled upon a pair of well-worn boots which had remained in the attic for years. It was covered in cobwebs and dust, it was as if it had spent centuries in that old attic, alone, forgotten and no sane person would even think of keeping these boots, let alone wearing them. But I could not throw them away for they had a certain rugged charm, like the footwear of an adventurer from those old fantasy novels I used to enjoy as a boy. I cleaned them, dusted them and even dared to try and fix them with what little knowledge I had of sowing and leatherworking, discrete touches that would keep the boots together without removing their well-worn look. But that would be for nothing, for I had set them upon the mantelpiece next to the urn and as I was reading an old tome, I smelled a peculiar odor. It was when I realized it was smoke that I looked up to gaze at the boots that were burning upon the mantelpiece. I panicked and almost saw my library burning, I would not fathom how it had happen, the fireplace was and old but well-made piece of architecture that let no heat go through its stone. When the fire was put out, I hurriedly cleaned the ashes left by the boots on the mantelpiece, wishing to leave no trace of them , for fear that next time, my own soles would catch on fire.

Eleven fifty-five. My throat tightens, midnight is almost upon me and I have naught but wild theories and unconvincing explanations, not a single hint of a clear answer. I remove my glasses to wipe them clean, as if this simple, common gesture could help me forget about the fear clouding my heart, to no avail. The cold tea does not comfort me anymore and I leave it upon the table next to my chair, nothing could help me find piece as the clock slowly ticked to midnight. My trembling legs are numb and I rise from my seat to pace around the library, my eyes constantly darting toward the grandfather clock as the time approaches. I dare to look out the window once more, nothing but a cloudy sky with a full moon shining dimly upon the gloomy forest beyond the gate. And as I turn to return to my chair, something catches the corner of my eye, something faint but contrasting with the dark, twisted trees. It is like a distant light, flickering and barely illuminating the dark figure behind the game. I feel nauseous with fear, my sleeve darkened by the moisture of the sweat I kept wiping from my forehead for the last ten minutes without even realizing. I struggle to sit upon my chair, my body shaking with anxiety as the grandfather clock showed eleven fifty-eight. Not a single noise disturbs the quiet of the library, except the crackling of the fire as the last of its flames dies, leaving the room in oppressing darkness.

Eleven fifty-nine.

Time suddenly feels as if it slowed to a crawl, as if I was separated from the dreadful midnight toll by an entire hour rather than a single minute. I can see it clearly now, he memories of the last few weeks piecing together, fragmented clues stemming from idle chatter and long discussions as well as words from books and documentations I stumbled upon. None would believe that a pair of boots suddenly caught fire nor would they believe that a warning written in blood would appear on the ceiling. None would believe that the cursed ashes of an unknown traveler would lure its wrath and bring misfortune upon the manor but it was all clear. I breathe slowly, calmly, as if the realization of it all was bringing me some strange peace as midnight approached. I barely cared about the light I had seen beyond the gate, now much closer as I glanced at the window some more. I now understand that this dreadful feeling of impending doom did not stem from paranoia and I had every reason to be afraid these last few days.

The ashes belonged to a wanderer, a man of no wealth and no home looking for his next coin or hot meal. Few would acknowledge him, fewer still would hand him some coins or offer him a piece of bread. That gaunt, shambling wreck of a man had been alone, threatened not only by cold, hunger and disease but also by the cruelty of men and women, fueled by the disparity in their social standing. The traveller, or “lost beggar” had come to this home before, in my great-great-grandfather’s days, undoubtedly to ask for a show of generosity. He had come in the dead of night carrying an old oil lantern which had little fuel left and was heard shouting from beyond the bars of the gate, fearful of the dark woods and stricken with a cold. What followed was the injustice for which I am about to pay the price, for which I am the one who will be laid in the proverbial fires of Hell.

The traveller was refused, threatened and when the gate was opened, it was not for hospitality but for a beating, as, presumably, my great-great-grandfather had his young, stocky butler push away the beggar, who would not concede, pleading, begging, almost insane with his needs to fill his stomach and find safety even for a single night. I have heard from local scholars that the struggle led the beggar to end up barefoot as he was grabbed and dragged tentatively away from the gates and the wild flailing of the poor mean led to the shattering of his lantern and it was said inhuman screams came from his lungs as he was consumed by the flames that had lit his way along the dark roads. My great-great-grandfather had been as anxious as I am now for he knew his life would be ruined should anyone know of the beggar’s death. As if it would appease the poor man’s soul, his ashes were put in an urn and his boots, his only surviving belongings, had been kept. No more talk of that horrifying incident ever arose since then.


The first of the twelve rings of midnight resonate in the library. I understand what happened.
At the second ring, I know why I had inherited this manor. From the third to the seventh, my mind races as I think of every futile way I can escape this dreadful fate. From seven to ten, I feel a presence and I hear footsteps. At eleven, I realize my pockets are devoid of anything that would pay the traveller's price. And after days of anxiety and nauseous anticipation, after sleepless nights, daily fasts and more drinks of scotch than water, I finally close my eyes on the twelfth ring as I let fate fall upon me, my ears filled with the the rasping breathing and my nose saturated with the rancid odor of spoiled meat, the oil lantern the only source of light in the library. Silently, sitting still, I await as the traveller that comes at midnight brings darkness upon my soul and takes his just payment in blood for my great-great-grandfather’s sin.

[DragonneRPG Deactivated]

That one is something I ended up never finishing. I wanted to write something bleak and hopeless in the vein of Harlan Ellison's "I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream". Not sure I'll ever continue it but you never know.

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I rolled and thrashed on the pavement as I clutched my throat with both hands, lungs burning from the insidious intrusion of the acrid mist that filled the atmosphere; an overwhelming cloud of death that promised anything but. No matter how hard I clutched my throat, how hard I retched, the agonizing fiery sensation would not leave my respiratory system, pinning me to the ground to struggle against an invisible opponent which I can never shake off. On both side, Rhonda and Cal were trapped in the same agony I was suffering; the first clutching her throat with tears rolling down her dark cheeks, the latter gasping vainly for air, only overfilling his lungs even more. This had become a horrible norm, a recurring moment of torture we could never escape no matter how hard we tried. We tried covering our mouth and nose with a scarf. We tried gas masks. We tried finding higher ground in the hope of escaping the recurring torture-mist. Nothing worked, we were condemned to suffer whenever the world turned green and cloudy, our lungs filled with the searing pain of a fog that felt like we had inhaled microscopic needles that poked at our flesh and made our throats bleed. And we never died. We weakened, we struggled, we choked and gasped for a breath that wouldn’t come and it lasted what I thought were hours, only for it to stop after what seemed like an eternity. Usually, we passed out with the relief that we could finally be freed from our mortal envelopes, only to awaken to the cruel reality that sat upon the world. Fractured roads, crumbling towers of metal and concrete that used to be filled with offices and businesses, cars littering the broken streets covered in a layer of rust that formed unnaturally. We awoke to a dead world every time the malicious fog lifted and we dragged our feet onward in the hope of finding supplies. Wandering and trying to fill our stomachs had become a mere habit; we were three hopeless nomads pressing on despite the awareness of sufferings to come.

No one knew how the world turned like this, how this grayish-green mist came to be, how it fell upon the world and shrouded the Earth in its deathly cloak and why death refused to take us. It was as if the Grim Reaper abandoned its post, eschewed his role and decided to leave us there to suffer eternally; condemning us to the pain of a tortured existence in a world that turned gray and sickly. But his leave came with a sudden harvest that stripped the planet of most of its life; billions of souls reaped in one sweep of the scythe that left – as far as I know – only a fraction of us all. We had met a soul or two during the last few months, weary, desperate people who did as we have done: moving on and trying to find a purpose in a withered world that had nothing to offer but pain. And in these few months we understood that no matter what, the Reaper would never take us away. I remember one of these people we had met, a desperate man whose nerves could not take it anymore. He had attempted suicide numerous times, to no avail. Old wounds festered from previous attempts; gangrenous gashes from stabbing, the dark mark of a tight rope around his neck. Shortly after we left him to cry and sob by himself, we heard a distant screaming and upon investigation, we saw his broken, writhing body laying on the reddened pavement. It was a fall that should have killed him but he still breathed and whined, begging for merciful death. We could do nothing but give him some of the morphine we had in our first-aid supplies to ease his unending suffering, if only for a few hours.

 

Darkness came as these memories filled my mind and my eyes blinked upon the dim light from the sky, the sun blocked by the gray-green shroud. Rhonda sobbed and Cal sighed. They couldn’t take it anymore and neither could I. But we knew there was no way out and we didn’t want to end up broken messes on the pavement like the man we had met months ago; bloody pulps of shattered bones protruding from torn flesh and twisted limbs, ever caught in an unending suffering worse than the fog.