George Villiers, 1st Duke of Buckingham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
airshipswank) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2012-09-01 07:09 pm
airshipswank) wrote in entranceway2012-09-01 07:09 pm
[ACTION mostly] Fair is foul and foul is... frightfully far gone from reality
Buckingham feels uneasy from the moment he wakes up.
From the moment he wakes up thinking he heard the sound of crows. Thinking just for one terrified second that he's trapped in the last event's fog. But the colour is different and his hands aren't stone; they are still flesh, damp and shaking from the cold.
It's mist, mist like the one looming over the moorlands in the south and how long has it been there? Well over an hour, but Buckingham can't know that. He can only get dressed, faster and with less care and more urgency than he can reasonably explain.
He sees his own breath dancing in the cold when he hears the crows calling again in the distance. The floor underneath his feet feels soft like mud, despite the vague recollection that he ought to be indoors, on the tenth floor no less. That there ought to be no drops of water falling from the ceiling.
But they do and something is wrong, something is wrong in a way that feels far more imminent and oppressive than usual, in a way that makes Buckingham forget about his communication device and the option to laugh it off over the network.
Because something is out there and now it's banging at his door, suddenly and without warning, louder and louder without pause or mercy until the wood cracks and dark water spills into his room, soaking his boots and breeches up to his knees.
He aims his guns at the door, but nothing and nobody follows through. Nothing but a cold draft and the crows calling again.
Buckingham curses the mansion through his teeth. A rat scurries out from under his dresser and disappears through the door. With his weapons ready at hand he follows it into the corridor where the water only barely reaches his ankles. No more wading, but the smell of dirt and moss and rot remains.
As do the drops coming from the ceiling, as do the walls that are peeling from the moisture.
A stray bundle of tall grass here and there, swaying in the wind. In a place where neither grass nor wind ought to be, but Buckingham no longer thinks about that. He thinks about a play he saw at home, about fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air, was that not how it went?
About how he's suddenly not so sure if their malicious cackling is only remembered or if it's right--
There! He spins around, aiming his gun at the shadow he was convinced he saw without even looking back. But it's nothing again, nothing but crows mocking his effort from the distance and another rat--
Another rat that won't escape his dagger this time. The weapon is drawn and tossed in an instant. The creature only twitches once. Then it stills and disappears in the mud. It's as close to triumph as Buckingham will get, at least right now, now that the rhyme is coming back to him again in sing-song voices.
Foul and filthy indeed. Foul and filthy and so rank it's almost tangible, crawling down his throat and nearly choking him, forcing him to take sharp breaths into his sleeve before he gives up and falls against the wall, retching.
And then it reveals itself at last, laughing at him cruelly fromthe end of the corridor the distant hills of the moor, red eyes staring and daring him to come closer.
Buckingham stumbles backwards.
Buckingham stumbles backwards and halts, immediately resenting himself for stumbling backwards instead of drawing his pistol (like he does now) and approaching (just like now).
...Just like now as he stomps towards an ominous and unseen foe, continuing a scene that would be far more impressive to outsiders if they could see more than a strutting and fretting madman on the tenth floor corridor.
From the moment he wakes up thinking he heard the sound of crows. Thinking just for one terrified second that he's trapped in the last event's fog. But the colour is different and his hands aren't stone; they are still flesh, damp and shaking from the cold.
It's mist, mist like the one looming over the moorlands in the south and how long has it been there? Well over an hour, but Buckingham can't know that. He can only get dressed, faster and with less care and more urgency than he can reasonably explain.
He sees his own breath dancing in the cold when he hears the crows calling again in the distance. The floor underneath his feet feels soft like mud, despite the vague recollection that he ought to be indoors, on the tenth floor no less. That there ought to be no drops of water falling from the ceiling.
But they do and something is wrong, something is wrong in a way that feels far more imminent and oppressive than usual, in a way that makes Buckingham forget about his communication device and the option to laugh it off over the network.
Because something is out there and now it's banging at his door, suddenly and without warning, louder and louder without pause or mercy until the wood cracks and dark water spills into his room, soaking his boots and breeches up to his knees.
He aims his guns at the door, but nothing and nobody follows through. Nothing but a cold draft and the crows calling again.
Buckingham curses the mansion through his teeth. A rat scurries out from under his dresser and disappears through the door. With his weapons ready at hand he follows it into the corridor where the water only barely reaches his ankles. No more wading, but the smell of dirt and moss and rot remains.
As do the drops coming from the ceiling, as do the walls that are peeling from the moisture.
A stray bundle of tall grass here and there, swaying in the wind. In a place where neither grass nor wind ought to be, but Buckingham no longer thinks about that. He thinks about a play he saw at home, about fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air, was that not how it went?
About how he's suddenly not so sure if their malicious cackling is only remembered or if it's right--
There! He spins around, aiming his gun at the shadow he was convinced he saw without even looking back. But it's nothing again, nothing but crows mocking his effort from the distance and another rat--
Another rat that won't escape his dagger this time. The weapon is drawn and tossed in an instant. The creature only twitches once. Then it stills and disappears in the mud. It's as close to triumph as Buckingham will get, at least right now, now that the rhyme is coming back to him again in sing-song voices.
Foul and filthy indeed. Foul and filthy and so rank it's almost tangible, crawling down his throat and nearly choking him, forcing him to take sharp breaths into his sleeve before he gives up and falls against the wall, retching.
And then it reveals itself at last, laughing at him cruelly from
Buckingham stumbles backwards.
Buckingham stumbles backwards and halts, immediately resenting himself for stumbling backwards instead of drawing his pistol (like he does now) and approaching (just like now).
...Just like now as he stomps towards an ominous and unseen foe, continuing a scene that would be far more impressive to outsiders if they could see more than a strutting and fretting madman on the tenth floor corridor.
no subject
Shit.
"Hey, uh." George puts her hands up, hoping he isn't adding her into his hallucination as an enemy or something. She figures that's too much to ask. "I'm not gonna hurt you or anything."
no subject
"You said there... was no cause for concern. You said so last time," he hisses and stumbles backwards, not quite daring to lift his pistol against her just yet.
In the back of his mind the fog pulls at a conversation they had, the briefest exchange at the beginning of an event George claimed to be perfectly harmless. An event that led to Buckingham's death over and over again. Athos was responsible, clearly, and Santana was there, always there, but... but now?
Now George is as ill an omen to him as this ghastly fog itself.
no subject
And now people really did think she was the one at fault.
"This isn't last time, alright? That was different. And once you calm down and--"
She hesitates, not sure if she wants to risk it, but finally takes the mask off and gingerly holds it out to him. "If you put this on, you'll feel better." She bites her lip, extend her arm a little further. "I promise."
no subject
"Quaint, that... is a rather quaint design for a heretic's fork. Or is that not what it is?"
He laughs shakily and turns away from George.
"Silence me, will it? Calm, so... very, very calm."
no subject
She gestures around. "For the gas."
no subject
Buckingham's reinterpretation of the mask comes with a scornful laugh. That is, if he was even listening to begin with.
He slowly turns back to George, but his intentions, whatever they were, are interrupted by the rats, too many rats crawling out of the fog and gnawing at his boots.
He kicks at them. Shoos them away with an angry hiss. Directs the same tone at George.
"A little late for your tricks, is it not?"
no subject
1/2
"You think to feast on me while I still draw breath?!"
He draws something else as well. Aims with it. And shoots. The gun goes off, the bullet lodging itself into the floor, perhaps too close to George's feet for comfort. In reality, anyway.
In the duke's vision he hits the tiny black monster square between its glowing eyes.
One last flicker of red. Then they're gone. At least for the moment.
2/2
"...Help, Miss Lass?"
no subject
"It's-- it-- There is nothing there! Look at it! Really look!" She holds the gas mask up again, chest tight with fear. "You need to put this on."
no subject
The fog chills him and he refuses to shiver. His clothing clinging to him, damp and cold. His boots almost soaked with mud and every once in a while his face twitches as another drop of cold water lands on it.
And the next attack? Not rats, that much is certain...
"If the device is so important, why not... put it on yourself?"
He advances slowly.
no subject
[The fog is getting closer just as he is. She takes a step back.]
no subject
His steps continue. He does not sound especially thrilled by the offer.
wow random action tags sorry
oh you rebel you
Murder. Murder by this dreadful creature that evokes such ghastly memories of death, murder most vicious and under the pretense of lending her aid, murder--
Murder that lacks subtlety and is doomed to fail.
Lord Buckingham grins.
"You suspect... death won't work on you?"
He extends his hand towards George, towards the mask she offers.
no subject
"It's complicated. I already died back home." She isn't sure if this is convincing-- it really depends on if he knows that that doesn't make one exempt and is aware she's been around long enough to know that is the case. "It just seems like I've hit my limit! That's all!"
She laughs awkwardly.
Is this why Rube didn't want her getting involved with the living?
no subject
"Then this shan't even sting!"
And this? This is Buckingham grabbing not George's mask, but her wrist instead. This is the duke freeing a knife from his sleeve all too swiftly as he pulls her closer. This is a paranoid man thinking he has to be faster, because it will be her life or his.
This is him aiming right for her heart.
no subject
This time, she feels ever last pump of her heart.
BELATED CONCLUSION
Buckingham watches her body quiet and sink, silent and still onto the ground. A human body with a human end, a mortal life utterly extinguished save for the last warmth of her blood that still clings to his chemise.
He expected more.
More resistance, more difficulty in ensuring her defeat, but no matter how long his gaze lingers she simply refuses to give an encore, even as the fog washes over her body.
It only means the real enemies are still out there.
Buckingham stares at the bloody ground one last time before finally turning to leave.