It had happened two years ago, standing on a rocky hilltop, near the border, a month after he had been called on to serve Queen and country. A strange storm had blanketed everything to the east, great clouds that burned from within with a terrible fire. There had been a tremendous roar, like nothing he had ever heard before, and after that, everything had been silent.
After the tempest of fire had ended, only a dead grey mist remained. Spectre had been among the first to walk the blasted waste where his homeland once had been, before it had even been deemed safe enough for people of flesh. He had been burdened with bringing back the first reports. He had brought back more.
The inn, if inn it was, was just ahead now, and looking more inviting with every stride, its windows glowing in the gloom. With each passing moment, the weather became more fierce. The wind howled and screamed, and in its voice he could hear words, he could hear stories he didn't want to hear, didn't want to know. It was probably just his imagination, but it was so hard to tell these days.
At last he had the iron handle of the large, weather-beaten door in hand, he pressed the latch and flung it open, but he did not enter, not yet. Standing on the threshold, Spectre turned to face the gale one more time. He stepped carefully to one side of the doorway, his mouth unhinged, and he spoke. His words were all but lost in the wail of the wind, but if someone had been standing very close, they might have heard:
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ninetydegrees
Spectre's Introduction, Part 2
on 2010-07-21 02:22 am (UTC)Spectre was afraid of storms.
It had happened two years ago, standing on a rocky hilltop, near the border, a month after he had been called on to serve Queen and country. A strange storm had blanketed everything to the east, great clouds that burned from within with a terrible fire. There had been a tremendous roar, like nothing he had ever heard before, and after that, everything had been silent.
After the tempest of fire had ended, only a dead grey mist remained. Spectre had been among the first to walk the blasted waste where his homeland once had been, before it had even been deemed safe enough for people of flesh. He had been burdened with bringing back the first reports. He had brought back more.
The inn, if inn it was, was just ahead now, and looking more inviting with every stride, its windows glowing in the gloom. With each passing moment, the weather became more fierce. The wind howled and screamed, and in its voice he could hear words, he could hear stories he didn't want to hear, didn't want to know. It was probably just his imagination, but it was so hard to tell these days.
At last he had the iron handle of the large, weather-beaten door in hand, he pressed the latch and flung it open, but he did not enter, not yet. Standing on the threshold, Spectre turned to face the gale one more time. He stepped carefully to one side of the doorway, his mouth unhinged, and he spoke. His words were all but lost in the wail of the wind, but if someone had been standing very close, they might have heard:
"After you, your majesty."