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iamconstantine · 5 years

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RWBY CHAPTER 12: BLACK & WHITE (I SUCK AT COMMITMENT)

* Okay so we are leaping RIGHT into Sun and Blake talking together * Sun actually kinda-sorta sounds like Jaune with a deeper voice tbh but I’m sure it’s not the same VA * I was going to make a joke about Blake suspiciously sipping her cup while Sun smack talks the White Fang but then she actually did it * And there it is * I just noticed that Sun’s hair is yellow and his eyes are dark while Blake’s eyes are yellow and her hair is dark. Interesting contrast. * (Insert LOST flashback woosh) * YEEEESSS Different animation style! * The White Fang originally being a sort of “peace group” is actually way more compelling than just an all-out terrorist group. It’s a repeating cycle of hate of one side against the other. The things they do are way, way overkill, of course, but it’s also a reminder that things aren’t always b-- * I just realized why this episode is called “Black and White.” * ._. * Lil kitten Blake. Baby. * “And the New Leader’s first decree was that the old symbol wasn’t edgy enough, so we gave the animal fangs and claw marks and we made it red and people took us more seriously” * The image of the signs becoming weapons was very nice * The portrayal of prejudice and response and related topics are presented pretty realistically in the show, and honestly, credit to them for not doing some weird sugary stuff with it. Usually I see this kind of stuff as like “The other group had their fewings hurt so they hurt peopwe too but that’s not okay uwu” but here it’s just like “Yeah man we started being violent instead of peaceful and people started listening which was good but they were also afraid of us which is bad” * Blake’s explanation of why she left gives newer context to her fight with Weiss. It isn’t just that she has to once again experienced hatred just because she’s a Faunus, and it isn’t just that she has to keep her mouth shut about who she is out of fear. Blake left the White Fang because she hated how violent they were becoming, but after doing the right thing, she once again has to deal with discrimination just for being...Blake * No Sun she hasn’t told anyone but I think they know * Also HOW did Sun know she was a Faunus? Did I miss something? * The way Ruby hisses “Ugh...Weiss” was so acidic like she is 110% done with Weiss’ crap * Yang is trying to hard to be peacekeeper poor thing * Penny returns and everyone is scared * I’m assuming that either A) Penny actually SAW Blake’s ears, or B) Penny saw the bow and just said “yeah there some ears under there” which would kind of explain how Sun knew but not really * I didn’t hear what Ruby said at first but then I put on subtitles and “She does like tuna a lot” almost made me WHEEZE. Ruby’s VA has a really good grasp on comedic delivery * Ruby was like “fam?” but Yang and Weiss were like “peace” * Penny noting on how windy it is is funny but honestly is no one going to comment on the tumbleweeds? * Sun and Blake immediately teaming up is kind of heartwarming; I imagine Blake hasn’t met another Faunus who she could be open with in a while * That said isn’t Sun supposed to be hiding from police? Aren’t they just wandering around? * I still don’t side with Weiss but her line about how the innocent don’t run does remind me that she believes Blake is some kind of criminal. Yes, Weiss has a definite prejudice against Faunus people, but again, I think she’s been ingrained with the lie that all of them are dangerous terrorits * “Is she a MAN?” girl what * Ruby’s outlook on the situation makes a lot of sense. She’s not mad at Blake, not at all, and she’s definitely against Weiss in the argument. That said, she doesn’t know what to make of Blake just running off. I’m sure as the team leader she expects everyone to trust each other on top of being friends, so learning that Blake doesn’t trust her enough to talk to her must her. Of course, Blake has every reason in the world to keep her secret, but I get where Ruby is coming from * I admire Blake and Sun deciding to investigate but what is there plan there’s only two of them * I was fully expecting Sun to respond to Blake with some kind of cheesy pick-up line but him just clapping back with “Weren’t you in a cult or something?” honestly surprised and pleased me * Also Blake’s pout * Oh that animation isn’t...good...not bad, just...not good... * Speaking of animation I’m noticing a kind of recurring thing where characters are technically “walking” but they’re also sliding at the same time. I really, REALLY am not trying to nitpick but it is noticeable. * Speaking off the detail of Sun’s hair, his necklace, and his abs are all pretty good. Definitely a great character design * “See I told you our new logo was cool and edgy” “man u right” * I know I just commented on the whole slide-walk think but at least a few seconds ago it was kind of hidden by the ramp just now it was all up in my face * He’s baaaaaack * So is Blake implying that Torchwick might actually be a Faunus, or is something else amiss? * On the one hand I know Blake can take on countless robots and a giant bird monster but on the other hand I’m with Sun. What is she doing? * Was Torchwick about to drop the f bomb? * Blake talking to the WF as one of them is pretty clever * Torchwick’s VA is doing a good job but he still has that teeth-talk problem * I’m sorry did this guy just blast an actual star at her? * This once again brings me to my upcoming study: “RWBY: Everything is Gun” * Sun’s attack on Torchwick was animated very well, a definite step up from last episode where he seemed too restrained * Torchwick just spoke my thoughts. I do admire everyone’s bravery but come on. The bad guys WILL have backup. * Holy CRAAAAP Sun beating all the WFs with his bo staff is AWESOME and it is animated AMAZINGLY * On top of that Blake’s...I don’t know, “teleport” effect is really cool to look at * What I appreciate mostly about the fights in this show is that even though it’s all very energetic and fast-paced you can keep up with what’s happening. It’s not just trying to look “fight-ish”, it’s real and you can follow every movement * Sun’s bo staff splitting into nunchuks are really cool I wonder if it’s also a--

* There it is. * I also like that the fights make use of the environments * I felt like Torchwick laughing was a little too on the nose but the subtitles saying (evil laugh) just confirms it * Penny is not mad muffin * Let me guess Penny’s about to do a murder * Excuse me

* OH YEEEEAAAAH PENNY’S OFF THE CHAIN * SHE MOWING THESE GUYS DOWN LIKE GRASS * OH * MY GOSH * How is Ruby just mildly pleased and not losing her mind right now * Is Penny about to do a Captain America? * Ruby your question is legitimate but how is that your first one? * Bout time the police showed up * Okay. Moment of truth. How is Weiss going to handle this? * Gooooood. Good girl. * At the same time I appreciate (?) that Weiss almost slipped up on calling Sun something there. She’s going to turn over a leaf to accept Blake as a teammate but that doesn’t mean she’s cured, and she’s still super suspicious of Sun because, well, he is technically a criminal * Is Penny?? A criminal too? * “Hey Ozpin what cha doing” “Oh you know stalking students again; not getting involved or helping in any way” * Oh!! Qrow!! Ruby’s uncle!! * And so the season concludes! * Overall? Not bad. Did it blow my mind? Well, not necessarily. Am I impressed? Absolutely! * I still stand by what I said before about the pacing being a bit off for this first volume. * I do like Jaune. I like his arc and his relationship with Pyrrha and his struggle to be a leader. At the same time, the fact that he gets an arc before Yang or Blake, despite both of them being two of the titular characters, doesn’t feel right. If Weiss and Blake’s storyline had been running alongside it, I think that would have paced things better. Giving Jaune focus without stealing the spotlight from the leads. * Jaune’s arc also has the side effect of bringing things to a halt. It was an enjoyable arc, but following Ruby and Weiss dealing with their feelings on their new team, it more or less feels like a sudden roadblock than anything else. The fact that it really only includes Jaune, Pyrrha, and Cardin (who I wonder will show up again, creepy little sh*t) and not Ren or Nora is something I’ll get to in a second. * Yang herself didn’t get much attention at all, which is very disappointing to me. I don’t know very much about her other than that she’s a thrillseeker, a peacekeeper, and is just nice in general (as long as she’s not angry). I feel like she kind of got robbed here. * I also still believe that the lack of background characters, though explainable and really not that big a deal, is not a “good” thing. To me, it makes Beacon feel really, really empty, not the giant of a school it really is. Cardin’s team were shown, thankfully, but even then their designs are pretty bland and suffer from “Guess Who’s the Main Character?” syndrome * The animation has some highs and some lows, and I’m going to take a guess that most focus was given to the fights, which I will say again look absolutely fantastic. I completely admire the animation team’s work and direction, while at the same time I think other animations feel a bit rough and incomplete. It’s nothing that absolutely breaks my immersion, but there are times when it seems something is supposed to have a lot of energy and instead is too rigid or even too “smooth”, i.e. no sense of gravity or weight. * The designs of every character are always very nice to see--and I would like to once again reaffirm my opinion that character designs don’t always have to be realistically practical and “grounded”. I’d much rather Ruby be wearing see Yang wearing kerchiefs and short shorts than have her be in a completely unnotable outfit with muted colors. Each design also serves the character well. Even Jaune’s very simplistic design highlights how he doesn’t quite fit in at Beacon, and is just “average” compared to everyone else. * The VAs all did very well, even if I did feel at times that they were holding back. * Ren and Nora also did not get very much attention and more or less just feel like filler on Jaune’s team for now. Not absolutely boring, but they don’t nearly play as much of a part as everyone else. I haven’t even seen Jaune interact with either of them that much, which lessens the impact of his struggle to be their leader. * The backgrounds are a bit hit-and-miss at times. Beacon itself looks amazing and grandious, a fairytale castle mixed with a bit of a futuristic edge. Other times, the backgrounds are flat and textureless and don’t feel very real. * I really do wish the first season was able to do episodes of “average episode length” (18~ minutes), as opposed to snippets that could range from 3 to 15 minutes. Even though I felt that “The Stray” ended in a very nice place and set up the next episode well, the season finale doesn’t really feel like a season finale. It just feels like the ending of a typical episode. The only thing that tipped me off that it was a finale was the longer credits. * This is on top of the fact that a few of the episodes were very short and really only progressed one or two things. * I still don’t quite get Auras or what the point of them is. This is the first season, of course, but thus far I really can’t tell how Auras change anything about fighting. I guess it does kind of explain why everyone isn’t bleeding and bruised by the end of every fight, but still. Right now, it feels that if Pyrrha’s explanation of what an Aura is was snipped out, I wouldn’t notice a difference. * Just speaking broadly, even though I think RWBY has a lot of things going for it--design, fight animations, character writing, etc--they’re kind of like a bunch of different candies all jumbled into the same bowl. On their own, they’re good and I can appreciate them. Together, stuffed into the same season in uneven episode lengths, they don’t really work all that well together. * Anyhoodle I’ll be starting season 2 soon and I look forward to it.

#rwby #my thoughts

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purkinje-effect · 6 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 13

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Updated 2019.01.29. Minor name tweaks. Uhh, Jared TW.

With a simple hand wave as Jared turned back inside the foreman’s office, Barb and Hewlett knew to wheel Melancholy up the long bar grate ramp that traced the far side of the assembly line floor. ‘Choly knew better than to contest whether he propel himself or they propel him--Jared had not only easily forty warm bodies in his stead, but also a number of active turrets. Once the two raiders had delivered him to their boss, they fell back to the steel mezzanine to remain on call.

“Good to finally meet you.” The painted black man took a seat himself in the segmented office chair and flipped the tails of his sleeveless leather coat out from under him. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Melancholy,” he fumbled, still clutching his syringer. The whole automotive plant hung in a stale, metallic rot. ‘Choly couldn’t say he’d seen this man’s face perching in rank on the car plant’s roof. “And you’re... Jared.”

“Melancholy? Huh. Not gonna ask how you came about that one, but I’m also not gonna question it.” Jared stroked at yesterday’s stubble and squinted at him. “No, it can’t be a coincidence, you being in a chair like that. Tell me, friend... How’s your experience with Jet?”

The chemist wasn’t sure what the wheelchair had to do with anything. His cowl concealed how genuinely baffled he was by Jared’s comment, unable to tell if it meant anything at all.

“Lot of effort just to place a work order. I can get you some, if you hook me up with the resources and space to manufacture it, if that’s what you’re asking. My lab’s not currently set up for Jet. Not ideally, anyway.”

He hadn’t himself ever distilled Jet, but he’d helped a retainer who’d used him and Hawthorne as a middleman enough times to know the basics.

Jared’s eyes widened a bit and he crossed his arms slowly.

“Now that’s a reply I wasn’t expecting. What kind of resources we talking?”

The lack of probability in this encounter boxed ‘Choly’s ears a bit. Everything felt at once both covertly coded and non sequitur.

“Brahmin manure. Lots of it. And every plastic container you can find.”

“Sounds pretty simple.”

“Oh, it’s really--not,” he saved, realizing he nearly let the entrepreneurial edge slip past him. But then it sank in Jared had no objections to brahmin and 'Choly hemmed a bit. “Brahmin are cows with entrails mutated by tainted feed before the war. I don’t know how many of those have survived. Regular cows aren’t going to work.” When Jared grew visibly irritated, ‘Choly coughed. “And even if you could find me brahmin, it’s honestly quite sophisticated to distill Jet. Takes a lot of precise measurements. And, by extension, the means of metering doses into ampuoles.”

“You must be quite the chemist. I’m impressed. My outfit thinks you’re a real showman.” Jared kicked his feet up on the file cabinetry next to him, and casually flicked out a switchblade from some pocket, to pick at his fingernails. “I don’t know what rock you crawled out from under, but brahmin are the only cattle that survived the war. We can discuss nitpicking details later. But first, back to the actual type of answer I was expecting...” After a while of trying to stay calm, he jammed down the switchblade in the arm of the chair and left it. “What kind of experiences do you have with taking Jet?”

‘Choly’s eyes glazed a bit at even trying to recall his recent fly-blown veneer. He sniffed.

“Gives me some interesting inspiration. I don’t dabble with it much. More of a Berries fellow, personally.”

“Berries?” That got the raider leader’s attention. “What kind of berries?”

“Berry Mentats,” ‘Choly elaborated, more self-conscious by the minute. “They’re far more potent than typical Mentats. Taste better, too, if you ask me. I’ve got a wide selection of things I can get for you. Stuff I can guarantee you haven’t heard of since before the world ended.”

“And what’s stopping me and my outfit from storming that dandy little ‘pharmacy’ of yours and just taking it all for ourselves?”

“You need someone to cook the stuff, don’t you?” A muffled giggle came from him, an attempt to cut the stress of having his new home threatened like that. “...Besides, I don’t have all the components I need. I have most of them, for most things, but I will guarantee you, very little of what’s stocked in that building is viable without a chemistry degree to revitalize it.”

Jared began to rock in the chair impatiently, then stared deadpan at him.

“Melancholy, that hood is starting to piss me off. Take it off.”

“Why? I like it.” The momentary lapse of better judgment folded the wad of canvas into his lap in concession. Jared was still staring, and ‘Choly trembled. “I--”

“You are a scrawny little fucker, you know that?”

“I--” ‘Choly wheezed, still unable to read the guy. “Yeah. No shit.”

“And you keep derailing me. Pay attention. Are you fucking high right now?”

“I’m fond of sampling the goods, yes.” He caressed his cheek with the side of the copper barrel of his blowgun, and looked to Jared thoughtfully. “I’m paying attention. I just don’t get what you’re trying to get at. Are you afraid to ask outright? I mean, it’s impossible to waste my time right now. I was about to deliver the day’s chems, when your folks grabbed me. That caught me by surprise. I never would have thought I’d get ambushed on a roof.”

“Like that, did ya? Gonna have to tell Lonnie how it worked so well, even you were impressed by it. Couldn’t say no, could ya?” Jared grinned at him. “Does Jet give you the sight? Or those Berries? What do they make you see? Are you seeing anything right now? Is that what’s got you so weird right now?”

Sight? Was ‘Choly supposed to understand?

“Mentats and Jet are a... most unsavory pairing.” His voice cracked a bit, and he glanced down to his dart cases. “At least, in my personal experience.”

Jared stopped grinning, his glare intense.

“Do... does what you see with them ever, like. Actually end up happening?”

“Fuck, I wish--” In an instant, ‘Choly clamped a hand over his own mouth, writhing in an ache of just imagining his vapors manifesting in reality. He squinted and squirmed lower in his chair to prevent a grunted moan from escaping between his fingers. He unclenched and melted backwards a bit, heels fast in the stirrups of the chair to steady himself, trying to save face. With every statement escaping his lips, he wondered why his mental filter culled some idiot commentary while permitting others that seemed just as poor in taste. “...What, do yours?”

“That’s between me and them,” Jared muttered. He rose abruptly and began to pace with restless rigor and a ragged breath. Suddenly he pointed at ‘Choly from across the room with a near glower. “You draft up a list of what you’re gonna need to cook stuff for me. Be as precise as you’re bullshitting me that you need to be. I’ll make it happen. This whole fucking town needs to be swimming in Jet.”

“I can do that. Not sure what you intend to do with that much cow shit, but-- hm.” ‘Choly stroked at the blow gun, conniving. “Delivery. Now there’s a word with several flavors. Jet, as I’m sure you know it, is an inhalant. A vapor. Would it be weird of me, to posit the intrigue of edibles, or even... inject-ables?”

“What, no! One thing at a time, you ass. Don’t derail me. You get Jet flowing through this place, and maybe we can talk about getting you set up to toy with experimenting with other chems. ...I gotta ask, though. The rumor’s too strong.” The blow gun drooped. “Why cash?”

“Everyone keeps trying to convince me no one uses cash anymore, but when I don’t budge on my prices, it still ends up lining my pockets. I don’t understand.”

“Gotta wipe your ass with somethin’, I guess.”

That definitely got under ‘Choly’s skin, and he clenched his teeth a moment.

“What should be my asking price? Should it be in caps?”

“That’s the sane and normal thing to demand.” Jared didn’t like this, his brow knitted wild and tight. “God, how high are you? What else is there but Nuka caps?”

“Maybe I ought to go by Rip Van Winkle, rather than Melancholy. If all this has been a trip, I hope it kills me.” ‘Choly looked to Jared, eyes dull but pleasant. “Maybe it did kill me. Trapped in my last hit for eternity.”

“...Well--” Jared squirmed just enough ‘Choly could see it. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but. You are so fucking weird. I can’t tell yet if I like you or hate you.”

“You’re going to end up doing both, I assure you.”

“--No, more like it’s been real.” Jared chuckled at his own inside joke, but shut up abruptly when ‘Choly hadn’t left yet. “Get out of here and take inventory of your shit. I’ll send somebody to collect your... shopping list around midnight. Leave it in your... capsule pipe or somethin’. Hey Hewlett, Barb.” When they came into the office, he waved them at ‘Choly. “Take Melancholy back to his pharmacy.”

Barb leaped at the opportunity to terrorize him again, snatching the chair handles with a lunatic glimmer in her saucer-wide eyes. He imagined she had to have been grinning like a Cheshire under that kerchief.

“You ready to ride like hell? ...You look miserable with the hood off, dreg.”

“I. I know. ...Before I go, can we make the rounds of the assembly floor? I need to plan out some things for Jared, and I think there might be some useful equipment here for what he’s contracting me for.”

“Whatever.” Hewlett grunted, hitting his handrim wheel with her bat, not unlike a rider spurring a horse. “Get goin’.”

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#fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 oc #fo4 oc #fallout 4 #sole survivor #jared fallout #jared fallout 4 #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy

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benito-cereno · 6 years

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The Further Adventures of Santa Claus, chapter 1: The Saint Comes to Wallachia (part two)

(Part one here.)

Inside the cold stone walls of the great hall of the old princely court stood as imposing a man as you could ever imagine, tall and handsome, with a tall, conical hat complete with plume only adding to his already seemingly impossible height. Over his shoulders was draped a long, heavy mantle trimmed with sable, pristinely kept and ideally designed for keeping out the chill of these eastern December nights. The handsome finery he wore beneath his cloak was likewise built for both warmth and prestige, similarly impeccably kept, matching his shoulder length but neatly trimmed hair, whose deep rich brown was echoed by his somewhat drooping but impeccably manicured mustache. The only detail that belied his courtly and cleanly appearance was the thick layer of black grime crusted red embedded deeply under his fingernails, which no amount of scrubbing could get clean. And in a certainly light, despite the boisterous joviality of his demeanor at this moment, his hardily scrubbed skin and the whites of his eyes reflected a sickly, jaundiced look like one succumbing to a great, yet unnamed plague.

Before him spilled forth a bountiful feast laid sumptuously across a table of truly improbable length, piled high with game birds and suckling pigs and crusty breads that steamed when you cracked them open as well as boiled potatoes and lark’s tongues and suets and barley stews and cheeses coated in honey and all manner of such lavish treats that if I were to name them all, you would scarcely believe me. Almost less believable than these were the company the great man was keeping at this time. The great hall, which you might expect to be filled with significant emissaries or envoys or diplomats of mighty kings or sultans, was instead crowded to its very walls with the sick and poor of Wallachia, huddled in their rags and coughing into the hems of their sleeves. Their faces, limned with the kind of dirt that comes only from a mix of hard labor and desperation, were for once lit up, both with the joy of the occasion and the light of the enormous fires crackling cheerfully in the hall’s many hearths. They cheered and clapped when their prince stood before them and raised his glass.

For prince he was. The great and terrible voivode of Wallachia: Vlad, third of his name, known as Țepeș, the Impaler, for the way he was normally wont to greet guests. But now he was pleased to welcome his people into his courts and he welcomed their esteem as he lifted his goblet, but soon calmed them with humility.

“It brings my heart great joy,” he said, waving down the people’s applause, “that so many of you could join me here this evening in Târgovişte. For it is my considered opinion that no one in Wallachia should go hungry, least of all on such a saint’s feast day!” A second roar of approbation rose from the crowd, which again the prince waved away. “But what else can I do for you? What else would you desire on this, the holiest of nights?”

The prince pointed a long, knotty finger encrusted with rings at a humble peasant, who wore a tunic so threadbare that there was likely more actual cloth in the kerchief he kept tied around his head to cover the eye he had lost to a pitchfork some years before. “You, good sir. What would you like?”

The man froze in place, his mouth half full of the meat from the leg of some fowl he had hungrily shoved into his mouth, though whose species he would not have been able to name. He was not expecting attention from the great man at the end of the table. “Er...me, my prince? What would I like?” He paused to think and swallow as the prince nodded warmly. “Well, sir, I suppose perhaps a few ducats? I could use them to repair my wagon, or perhaps a young jenny for work or milk?”

The prince first smiled broadly and then threw back his head and laughed, a loud, barking laugh that despite its volume seemed to be the only sound that did not echo in the spacious hall. “A few ducats?! Hahah, my good sir! A few ducats would last you a few days at best! Hardly to the new year!” He turned now to the entire crowd, sweeping his arm in a broad, magnanimous arc. “Would you not rather be forever without cares and never again want for anything? I can give you this! Would you have it?”

The people of Wallachia now cheered louder than they had at any moment before on this already cheerful evening. “Yes!” they shouted. “We would have it! You honor us, Prince Vlad!” they said, pounding the table and hoisting their glasses into the air.

Vlad’s once broad smile narrowed into a tight-lipped grin that for all its narrowness seemed far more sincere than his barking laugh. “Excellent,” he said, as he turned away from the table toward the great double doors at the end of the hall. As he reached those lofty, enormously heavy portals, he signaled to the two guards on either side of the doors by raising a nonchalant hand. “Men,” he said, “board up the doors and burn them all.”

The room erupted into chaos as the prince’s guests began to stand up from the table and rush for the door. But their arms, weakened from years of starvation, and their legs, wobbly from more wine than they had ever seen in their lives, were no match for the prince’s armed guards, who shoved them back into the hall and laid torches to the furniture and tapestry.

Arms grasped and flames licked through the crack of the door as the guards turned the heavy panels on their immense hinges. Soon they had laid boards across the opening and the sound of hammers mingled with the sounds of screams and the searing of flesh. In the hall, Prince Vlad was approached by his young page, who offered him a white handkerchief with which to wipe his hands, which nonetheless would never be clean.

Without turning toward the page, he addressed him. “Boy?”

The page, running with his small boyish legs to keep up with the prince’s inhumanly long strides, looked up with a look that was equal parts eagerness and terror. “Yes, my prince?”

The prince swept the handkerchief across his lips beneath the great tapestry of his mustache. He casually dropped the now wine-stained cloth behind him, and the child grabbed it midair, before it could meet the ground. The prince’s brow darkened. “Note that I have done this so that none shall have to suffer poverty under my rule.”

The prince strode silently through a large arched hallway until he reached another great hall, perhaps more splendid in size and ornamentation than the last, though by no means as cheerful and bright as the previous hall had been; no fires blazed here. It too, however, in its own way, was laid out with a feast. This was to be Vlad’s personal supper. It lacked the variety offered in the now burnt-out hall-cum-mass grave. Gone were the crusty breads and gleaming tree fruits; no suckling pigs nor pheasants; no grains, no cheeses, no honey, no walnuts. On Vlad’s table there was only platter after platter of strange gray meat whose origin would have been impossible to ascertain, and probably wiser not to ask about; and several pitchers filled to overflowing with a thick, rich red wine. All around the table, the air was thick with flies.

The page boy pulled out Vlad’s massive and ornate chair, which let out a resounding scraping sound throughout the mostly empty hall. “And now,” said Prince Vlad as he sat and the page began filling his goblet with wine, “to my own feast.”

At that moment, a second young boy in page’s garb entered the room. “Prince Vlad!”

“Yes, boy?” Vlad intoned with boredom, as he tore a few strands of stringy gray flesh from the very ripe pile in front of him. “Speak.”

“You have a guest at the door, sir. He says he is a bishop.”

Vlad cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps he would have some entertainment with his supper. “A bishop, eh? Did he say who and whence he was?”

The boy bowed his head humbly before the prince. “He says he is Nicholas of Myra, sir.”

Without meaning to, Vlad rose to his feet and slammed his fist on the table. He turned his face toward the ample shadow of the hall, which cloaked the anger and surprise that spread across his face in equal measure as he choked out two words to himself:

“The Turk.”

A wide smile cracked Vlad’s face like the first cut into a glistening roast beef. The curtain of his mustache parted to reveal a mouth full of pointed, conical teeth, reaching from the front of his face far into the dark recesses of his mouth. “Show him in.”

By the time he had turned back toward his seat, his esteemed visitor had entered the room and seemed to bring the sun with him. He wore his long bishop’s robes, red and white, and on top of them, he wore his sign of office: the omophorion, a long woolen stole worn around his neck and shoulders emblazoned with four crosses and an eight-pointed star. On his head he wore both his tall bishop’s mitre and the long white beard that children across the world recognize. His nose and cheeks were a deep but endearing shade of pink from the bleakly cold night air. In his right hand he held his crozier, an ornate staff that was another sign of his office; in his left he held what appeared to be three perfectly round spheres of gold. The whole of him gave off a sort of warmth and light that Vlad found quite difficult to look at.

“Your holiness,” the prince choked out. “What an...unexpected visit.”

The saint smiled politely. “I visit everyone on Saint Nicholas Eve, Vlad. One way or another.”

Vlad stood by his seat at the table and motioned to the chair at the other end. “Please, join me for a repast. You must be very hungry from your journey.”

Nicholas took the seat offered to him, pulled out by one of Vlad’s pages, but found himself briefly at a loss as he saw the gray mass of flesh laid out before him. He found his composure long enough to say, “Yes, well, I do traditionally take a brief rest for a small meal at the homes I visit.”

The longer he sat and looked around, the more he saw that threatened to destroy that composure totally. A thick, almost clotted wine spilling over the brims of jeweled goblets. Flies buzzing around the inscrutably many platters of meat. And, what had been hidden in shadows until the saint’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hall, a forest of spikes that ran the perimeter of the room and stretched from the floor nearly to the ceiling. They were empty now, but the crust of blood and gore upon them indicated the fate of Vlad’s previous dinner guests.

Nonetheless, the saint, in an attempt to be a polite guest, picked up a piece of meat by the end of the bone, only for the flesh to slide right off the bone with a sickening slurping noise. Nicholas cleared his throat quietly. “I see your meat is very fresh, prince.”

Vlad held up his cup and smiled. By this time, the wine from his cup had run out of his mouth and down his chin. His smile revealed that his numerous teeth were stained red. “The freshest.”

Nicholas slid the charger full of meat away from him and leaned back in his chair. “It reminds me of one of my journeys many years ago…”

And here is the story he told:

Three young scholars who had been traveling abroad needed a place to stay for the night.

“Dum sol aduc extendit radium,” said the first cleric, “perquiramus nobis hospicium.”

“Nec est nota nobis hec patria,” the second cleric replied. “Ergo queri debent hospicia.”

They sought shelter at the home of a certain old couple, who seemed nice enough.

“Hospes care, querendo studia,” said the third cleric through the door of the couple’s home, which also happened to be a butcher’s shop, “huc relicta venimus patria; nobis ergo prestes hospicium, dum durabit hoc noctis spacium.”

The old man was reluctant to let them in, but his wife persuaded him that they would suffer no loss by showing a little charity. But when the lads had fallen asleep, the old couple saw how they might benefit from this visit after all.

“Nonne vides quanta marsupia?” said the old man, eyeing the large money pouches that rested by the sleeping boys and drawing out one of his butcher’s knives. They would kill the young clerics in their sleep and steal their bags of gold.

Shortly after they had completed this deed, they received another visitor. One whose wealth was clearly much greater even than the youths'.

“Peregrine, accede propius,” said the butcher to me, greedily. “Vir videris nimis egregius.”

They offered me food to eat, but I refused it, saying I wanted fresh meat.

“Si vis, dabo tibi comedere,” the butcher offered. “Quidquam voles temptabo querere.”

“Nichil ex his possum comedere,” I refused. “Carnem vellem recentem edere.”

When he denied that they had fresh meat, I called him on his crime, as I knew his pickling barrels were full of three freshly slaughtered carcasses.

“Nunc dixisti plane mendacium!” I shouted, coming to my feet and pounding the table. “Carnem habes recentem nimium! Et hanc habes magna nequicia, quam mactari fecit pecunia!”

They then confessed to their deed without delay and begged forgiveness.

“Miserere nostri, te petimus,” pleaded the butcher’s wife, “nam te sanctum Dei cognovimus.”

I told them to bring forth the bodies of the dead and that between their contrition and the forgiveness of God, the youths would rise again.

“Pie Deus, cuius sunt omnia,” I prayed, “celum, tellus, aer et maria, ut resurgant isti praecipias, et hos ad te clamantes audias.”

And, of course, rise again they did. The butcher and his wife have since repented and entered into my service. They will be aiding me on my journeys somewhat west of here. Te Deum laudamus.

When Nicholas had finished his story, Vlad reclined almost mockingly in his chair and smiled once more. “Yes, I have heard many tales of your wonders, Turk. Few things do not reach my ears.”

The saint, parched of throat from telling such a tale, raised a goblet of wine to his nose. The curdled stench of the viscous red liquid turned his stomach, so he returned the cup to the table distastefully. “I did these things not under my own power, but God's.”

Vlad sat up in his chair. “Yes, but I have performed wonders of my own, through only my own power.”

No longer caring to be polite, the saint shoved the plate and goblet in front of him away in a clear sign of disdain for his host. “It is not with light tread that one compares himself to God, prince. Be wary.”

Vlad threw his head back and laughed sinisterly. This laugh echoed no more than the previous one, though its sound seemed to linger nevertheless. “Your God, a simple carpenter impaled on a post, should somehow threaten me, the impaler of a hundred thousand men and Turks?”

Nicholas leaned forward across the table and pointed an accusing finger at Vlad. “You blaspheme, sir.”

Vlad rose from his seat and rested his hands heavily upon the table, hunching his shoulders imposingly. “You have told me how you and your God raised three young scholars from the dead. This is no small feat. But..have you met my other dinner guests?”

At this time, Nicholas realized he and Vlad were not alone in the hall. Nor was it the page boys he was sensing in the room. The first thing that struck him was the smell: smoke, charred flesh, singed hair, burnt rags. By the time he turned around to see the crowd of the very recently dead who now lurked behind him, still issuing smoke and covered in a cracking, crackling charred layer of ash, it was too late. The guests of one of Vlad’s dinner parties was now joining the other.

“No!” the saint cried in vain as the grasping hands of the reanimated dead dragged him from his chair. He reached for his crozier, but it was beyond his reach, leaning against the table next to his three gold spheres.

Vlad smiled a smile of victory as he approached the overpowered saint, smug in his show of power as the saint found his arms pinned by an army of the immolated dead. “I told you I was not without powers of my own. There is a reason I am worshiped here after all.” At that moment, his eyes turned to the spheres of gold that lay near Nicholas’s place at the table. “And while you entertain my other guests, I think I shall entertain myself with your spheres of gold.”

However, when Vlad lifted one of the globes up to inspect more closely, he found that it wasn’t gold at all; the outside of the ball had a pitted surface with a somewhat rubbery texture. Vlad was surprised and perplexed. “Eh?” he said. “Oranges?” He turned to Nicholas and smiled. “How very exotic of you.”

Nicholas struggled under the weight of the grasping undead. “Those oranges are for the good children of the world, Vlad Drăculea, and most certainly not for you!”

Amused, Vlad raised a wry eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you bring for the bad children such as myself?”

Nicholas smiled with cracked and bloodied lips. With all his might, he managed to get one arm free from the grip of Vlad’s recently conscripted army and place two fingers to his mouth. After the deepest breath he could muster, he blew through his fingers, letting out a shrill whistle.

And outside in the dark, in the snow, a gray horse nickered. And a dozing beast stirred.

(More soon. Guess who’s next.)

#christmas #santa claus #dracula #santa vs dracula #my writing #halloween #saint nicholas #vlad tepes #not comics

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] The Croaks are Coming

sweet tea

Braahnk. Braahnk.

“The Croaks are coming.”

Mortimer rocked back in the rickety chair. Took another swig of sweet tea. The breeze blowing through the porch cooled his leathered skin during the midsummer's night.

“Ain't no such thing as Croaks, Papaw.”

Little Averitt says he doesn't believe. But his wide eyes and his goosebumps betray his words.

“They're just bullfrogs.” Averitt continued.

The boy's grandfather turned to him.

“There're bullfrogs out there for sure. Cicadas and 'gators. Cottonmouths too.”

They scanned the swamp that stretches out beyond the front porch. There's plenty out there that could kill a man.

Braahnk.

This time Averitt jumped. Mortimer let out a chuckle. Averitt climbed off the floor and edged closer to his Papaw.

“You gotta be careful this year, boy. You're finally ripe.”

“They don't take little boys away!”

With defiance, Averitt belted out his words. They say the Croaks only snatch children of at least eight years. Averitt's never seen it happen. He's never been friends with older kids either. Mortimer enjoys toying with his grandson, but he knows Averitt had better stay close to home this summer. The Croaks aren't too concerned with the child's belief system. A lack of belief didn't keep Mortimer's friend safe. Nor his brother. Of course, everyone in the small town of Henry believes the boys ran away. That they do believe.

Braahnk.

“Is it time for bed yet?”

Averitt's getting awfully fidgety. Even more fidgety than an eight year old ought to be. Mortimer throws another gulp of sweet tea down the hatch. A few cubes of ice rattle around the empty jar. He stands to stretch. Back pops like a corn cob thrown on dying embers.

“I suppose it is, boy.”

biscuits and gravy

“Averitt, get down here! Breakfast's ready!”

Eleanor didn't believe. She's had to listen to her husband talk about Croaks her whole marriage. Sure, she didn't meet Mortimer until later in life. And she didn't grow up in Henry. But she's the best Grandma Averitt could ask for. She treats him like her own. Treats him to fluffy, buttery, cathead biscuits topped with her famous sausage gravy for breakfast. Half-asleep, Averitt makes his way downstairs.

“Did Papaw keep you up late again last night?”

Mortimer's not going to let Averitt answer this one.

“I wouldn't dare such a thing, Ellie!”

Averitt flashes a grin.

“We heard the Croaks last night, Grandma!”

That lights her up.

“What did I tell you about fillin' that boy's head with lies!”

“Aw, they was just bullfrogs is all.”

“But you told me--”

Mortimer won't let his grandson protest. Now's not the time. Gotta let Eleanor get off to the neighbor's house. Too many goats to milk and not enough hands. Eleanor heads to the wash basin to clean up. Scrubbing dishes, she's still hot. She's spouting off to no one in particular, but Mortimer sure can hear it. She dries the last dish, washes her hands, and heads for the front door. Pauses. Turns.

“Don't scare the poor boy, Mort.”

She walks over to Averitt and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He's not too keen on grandma-kisses, but accepts her affection. She's going to be late. Eleanor turns and heads out the door.

Mortimer walks over to the window. Watches her walk down the dirt road. Once Eleanor is a sufficient distance he turns back to Averitt.

“You better believe those were Croaks, boy! Every ten years. Middle of summer they come.”

Only by accident of birth did Averitt miss the last Pickin'. He's more curious to hear the tale again under the safety of daylight. Mortimer and Avery sop their plates clean and head outside.

No breeze today. The oppressive heat does a number on Mortimer. He finds his seat and pulls out a handkerchief to fan himself. Averitt plops down at the edge of the porch, feet dangling over the side. Grass hasn't been mowed in a while and the taller weeds graze against Averitt's calves. Averitt's eager to listen. Sweat's already forming on Mortimer's brow. He wipes with the 'kerchief and resumes fanning. He begins the tale:

“The Pickin's been going on for longer than Henry's been a town. Every ten years they come. Middle of summer. We never know when exactly. It always varies by a couple days. But they'll be here this year. They'll be here soon. And every ten years we hear the same excuses. So-and-so ran away. Charles was killed by his father.”

Mortimer pauses. Charles was his friend. He's remembering.

“Mr. Haddick didn't kill his boy! He loved Charles. He'd do anything for that boy. Anything.”

Averitt turns to look at his Papaw. Mortimer tries to hide it, but Averitt catches the handkerchief swat a tear from the corner of the old man's eye. Averitt doesn't acknowledge it. He knows better. Turns back around. Kicks at one of the weeds.

Mortimer composes himself.

“The Croaks are horrible creatures. They'll snatch you from your bed. From the porch. From your parents' arm--”

He sees the boy twitch. Shouldn't have said that. Averitt's parents both died a couple years back. Mortimer continues.

“But they love to hunt in the swamp. You don't venture out to the swamp this summer. Not to fetch a ball that was tossed too hard. Not cause someone dared you. You shouldn't even want to leave this porch this year. The Pickin' will happen soon.”

What little hair Averitt has on the back of his neck begins to rise. He wants to hear more.

“Tell me what they look like Papaw”

Mortimer wipes more sweat away. His 'kerchief is soaked now. Keeps trying to fan himself regardless.

“They look like bullfrogs, for sure. Sound like 'em too. But you know when you hear a Croak calling you. Sends a chill down your spine. Mesmerizes you. You only hear a Croak call once. They enchant you. You lie in bed, sheets pulled to your nose. Stare at the ceiling, not daring to move a limb. The Croaks are coming. You know they're out there. You know they're Pickin'. You know you're next. But when you hear it, when you hear the call, all fear leaves your body. Your soul detaches from the flesh and is lifted from the bed sheets. Braahnk. The call is a sweet melody now, divorced from the one that draws you closer. The Croaks are coming.

They lurk in the swamps. They wait in the shadows. And they hunt at night. Slick skin the color of moss. A bullfrog's body, hundred times over. Tall as I was before gravity took its toll. Then it smiles at you. Teeth like daggers, you'd welcome a rattler's fangs deep in your flesh rather than look any longer. But by the time you see the smile you're already gone.

Then it hops. Feet like a grizzly pound the ground, claws dig deep into the soft mud. The call brings you closer. Then it pounces. Like a cougar it grabs you, fangs sink in deep. They drag you deep into the swamp. You'll never be seen from again. They take you back home. Back to the Other World."

Mortimer looks down at the floor. He stops rocking in his old chair. He pauses. Thinking.

"We don't speak of the Other World.”

The comforting embrace of the sun's rays isn't warm enough to stop the cold tingle running up Averitt's spine. Too scared to move.

Mortimer cups his hands round his lips:

“Braahnk.”

Averitt falls off the porch. He whips his head around to see Mortimer cackling.

“Papaw!”

Still laughing,

“I think it's time we head inside. The shade we're under now ain't doing us no good.”

whiskey

Wrapped up in a blanket, Eleanor has her nose in a book. Mortimer's not concerned with the title, some sappy romance he reckons.

“How do you stand being covered up like that?!”

Even inside, even at night, Mortimer is still fanning himself. He lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips. Draws in slowly. He doesn't drink like he used to, but the burn helps him get as much sleep as he can. The house is still.

“Why don't you go check on Averitt?”

Eleanor doesn't look up from her book; she just wants Mortimer to leave her in peace. He obliges. Takes the stairs carefully. The bones of the house are getting weak and he doesn't want to wake the boy.

The door is cracked slightly, a sliver of moonlight illuminates the hallway. Mortimer pokes his head in. Averitt's not in his bed. Mortimer coaxes the door open.

“Boy, get away from that wind--”

Braahnk.

The breath leaves his body. Cemented to the floor, his veins freeze.

Averitt tumbles out the window.

Life fills Mortimer's body once again. He runs to the window. With a thud, a shadow plops into the yard. It comes closer to his grandson.

Mortimer turns and runs for Eleanor.

“Eleanor, Eleanor! The Croaks are c--”

He makes it to the top of the steps and in his confusion trips. He tumbles, house slippers over head, down the stairs. With a crack, his skull meets the solid oak wall.

“Mortie!”

Eleanor drops her book and rushes to her husband. The trickle of blood slowly flows down the step.

She runs upstairs to find an empty room and an open window. She rushes to the window, scans the yard. Nothing.

ice water

“Drink up.”

Eleanor's neighbor passes her a glass of ice water. Hands still shaking, Eleanor accepts. Thankfully her neighbor has one of the few phones in town. Eleanor hurried over as fast as she could. The officer sitting across the table from the two wraps up the interview.

“We'll find Averitt. I promise. He's the second child this week to run away. For the time being, I suggest you stay here. When you're ready, we can help you prepare for Mortimer's funeral.”

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