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.
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.