Construction Post: Other Tales 10/14
Oct. 13th, 2011 12:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alexandraerin10/13/2011
12:05-12:35 - ~900 words (+600)
12:40-1:10 - ~1650 words (+750)
She entered through the black door.
Patrons always entered through the black door. It is the only door that exists for the public, and there is only one of it, though it can be found in many places. There are some doors that do not exist anywhere in particular. The black door is not one of them... that is to say, it does exist anywhere in particular that it needs to exist. I do not say that it existed everywhere, because that would imply a profusion of universes made up entirely of black doors. It exists as needed, neither appearing nor disappearing but simply being where it needs to be, when it needs to be there.
There are some places in some worlds where the black door is always needed, and so it can always be found by those who know to look. There are other places where it exists only infrequently. It does not come and go. When it is there, it has always been there. When it isn't, it has never been there. All who have seen the black door and visited the inn that lies beyond it know when it exists because they remember its existence. When it is gone they remember it only as stories, if they remember it at all.
The being known most recently as Jillian Callahan, student of offense turned teacher of defense, had passed through the black door before. Such a thing was to be expected. A mortal champion of a world... and she was a mortal, albeit a long-lived one... could only climb so high facing mortal challenges belonging to her own world.
Callahan had first been led to the Inn of the Black Door by rumors she heard from long-lived elves who died soon after. In her days, she had already faced off against gods, dragons, and giants. She had slain eldritch abominations for whom death itself proved to be a fairly abstract inconvenience. The world in which she had been created had not yet run out of challenges for her, but she was drawn to novelty.
This time that she came to the Inn, it was not to hunt. That galled her. Within the very essence of her soul, the natural mortal fear of eternity had been twisted and externalized into a revulsion for the eternal. She could sense the age and power of the drinkers in the taproom around her. She'd never come to the Inn specifically to start a fight within its walls, but it had happened.
The bartender, a slight and smooth-cheeked man, slipped out from behind his bar as she came into view. He glided towards her, his loose trenchcoat fluttering behind him like a cape. A number of the bar's more humanish patrons had actual capes on, a style choice that Callahan assumed reflected the fashions in worlds more closely connected to the Inn.
"Godslayer," the barkeep said to her, more by way of acknowledgment than greeting.
"Dark," she said.
"It has been a quiet night," he said. "I would consider it an immense favor if it remained so."
"How quiet do you want it?"
"Louder than the grave," he said. "At or about the same volume as it is now."
The bartender was immortal, not by nature but by dint of his own stubbornness and some impasse with his own god. She could feel that, and it both sickened and excited her. She refrained from killing him not out of politeness but because she'd done so on previous visits and it had never done any good.
"Relax, Johnny," she said. "This is a social call. I'm actually here on a date."
His eyes widened, but only by a bit and only for a moment.
"Ah," he said. "That is unfortunate."
"It is?"
"Yes, it means I owe the little trickster ten dollars."
Callahan, having been to the Inn and traveled the planes in at least a shallow wading sort of way understood this word to refer to a sort of money common in certain worlds, a fiat currency represented by paper or intangible numbers and backed by nothing but belief.
[]
"I took the liberty of ordering drinks," he said. "And drinking them."
"You take a lot of liberties," she said.
"They're medicinal," he said. "And anyway, I can stop any time I want. Start, too. Or keep going, or turn and go off in a different direction... you see, this is the beautiful thing about a life of liberty. You can do whatever you want."
"I want to see my eye," she said.
"This is a privilege few people have," he said. He reached into one of the many pouches that adorned his vest and pulled out a large jewelry box... larger still in his hand... and set it down on the table in front of him, facing her. He opened it.
Callahan nodded, then slid in on the other side of the booth. The box snapped shut and vanished
"Eye's grown back in nicely," he said.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "The terms of our deal are still the same."
"You only need two eyes," he said. "What are you going to do with a third one?"
"It's what you'd do with it that worries me," she said.
"Well, worry not... I've left it untouched," he said.
[One hour in.]
She entered through the black door.
Patrons always entered through the black door. It is the only door that exists for the public, and there is only one of it, though it can be found in many places. There are some doors that do not exist anywhere in particular. The black door is not one of them... that is to say, it does exist anywhere in particular that it needs to exist. I do not say that it existed everywhere, because that would imply a profusion of universes made up entirely of black doors. It exists as needed, neither appearing nor disappearing but simply being where it needs to be, when it needs to be there.
There are some places in some worlds where the black door is always needed, and so it can always be found by those who know to look. There are other places where it exists only infrequently. It does not come and go. When it is there, it has always been there. When it isn't, it has never been there. All who have seen the black door and visited the inn that lies beyond it know when it exists because they remember its existence. When it is gone they remember it only as stories, if they remember it at all.
The being known most recently as Jillian Callahan, student of offense turned teacher of defense, had passed through the black door before. Such a thing was to be expected. A mortal champion of a world... and she was a mortal, albeit a long-lived one... could only climb so high facing mortal challenges belonging to her own world.
Callahan had first been led to the Inn of the Black Door by rumors she heard from long-lived elves who died soon after. In her days, she had already faced off against gods, dragons, and giants. She had slain eldritch abominations for whom death itself proved to be a fairly abstract inconvenience. The world in which she had been created had not yet run out of challenges for her, but she was drawn to novelty.
This time that she came to the Inn, it was not to hunt. That galled her. Within the very essence of her soul, the natural mortal fear of eternity had been twisted and externalized into a revulsion for the eternal. She could sense the age and power of the drinkers in the taproom around her. She'd never come to the Inn specifically to start a fight within its walls, but it had happened.
The bartender, a slight and smooth-cheeked man, slipped out from behind his bar as she came into view. He glided towards her, his loose trenchcoat fluttering behind him like a cape. A number of the bar's more humanish patrons had actual capes on, a style choice that Callahan assumed reflected the fashions in worlds more closely connected to the Inn.
"Godslayer," the barkeep said to her, more by way of acknowledgment than greeting.
"Dark," she said.
"It has been a quiet night," he said. "I would consider it an immense favor if it remained so."
"How quiet do you want it?"
"Louder than the grave," he said. "At or about the same volume as it is now."
The bartender was immortal, not by nature but by dint of his own stubbornness and some impasse with his own god. She could feel that, and it both sickened and excited her. She refrained from killing him not out of politeness but because she'd done so on previous visits and it had never done any good.
"Relax, Johnny," she said. "This is a social call. I'm actually here on a date."
His eyes widened, but only by a bit and only for a moment.
"Ah," he said. "That is unfortunate."
"It is?"
"Yes, it means I owe the little trickster ten dollars."
Callahan, having been to the Inn and traveled the planes in at least a shallow wading sort of way understood this word to refer to a sort of money common in certain worlds, a fiat currency represented by paper or intangible numbers and backed by nothing but belief. It was a ridiculous and fantastic notion, but anyone who travels between worlds soon notes how what is pure fantasy in one frame may exist as fact in another.
"He's here, then?" she asked. She'd been idly entertaining the hope that he'd intended all along to stand her up or do some mischief elsewhere while she was off-world.
"He awaits you in one of the back booths."
Under normal circumstances, the Inn always had enough back booths. This was because like its door, the booths existed at need. Not only did their numbers match the needs of the Inn's clientele, but their size and shape did, too. They were all the same size, and that size was the right one. Big and wide enough for an ogre, small enough for a party of pixies, able to intimately accommodate a pair of lovers meeting for a quiet drink or an orgy that's been interrupted for emergency rehydration.
Thus, when Callahan slid with some ill-grace into the bench opposite the one who styled himself as the gods of gnomes, she found herself looking him in the eye. The table between them appeared perfectly level, and the benches on which they sat were the same size... but it was the right size, for him and for her.
Resolving the visual paradoxes inherent in the Inn's architecture and furnishing was not something that every mind in the multiverse could manage, which was among the reason that not everyone could find the black door.
"Owain," she said.
"My dear Jillian," he said. He gestured to the empty table. "I took the liberty of ordering drinks... and drinking them."
"You take a lot of liberties, gnomelord," she said.
"They're medicinal," he said. "And anyway, I can stop any time I want. Start, too. Or keep going, or turn and go off in a different direction... you see, this is the beautiful thing about living a life of liberty. It's so wonderfully freeing. You can do whatever you want."
"Right now, I want to see my eye," she said.
"Your replacement has grown back in nicely," he said.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "The terms of our deal are still the same."
"You only need two eyes," he said. "What are you going to do with a third one?"
"It's what you'd do with it that worries me," she said.
"Well, worry not... I've left it untouched," he said.
"I don't like to repeat myself."
"Then going into education was the worst mistake of your life."
"You may not be a real god, Owain, but I've killed things far older than you," she said.
"And far younger, I should expect, but I don't believe you've ever killed anything exactly my age before so I think I'm safe for the moment," he said.
"Show me my eye," she said.
"Oh, very well. This is a privilege few people have, without recourse to a mirror... and you get to do it in stereo, too," he said.
He reached into one of the many pouches that adorned his vest and pulled out a large jewelry box... larger still in his hand... and set it down on the table in front of him, facing her. He opened it.
"Are you satisfied that this is the item in question?" he asked.
Callahan nodded.
He nudged the box forwards across the table. "Go ahead, take it."
"Now?" she said.
"Whensoever it best suits you," he said.
She had not moved her hands at all since he had put the box down. It wasn't so much that she feared a trick, or even that she expected one... she knew there was a trick, the same way she'd known where to find the black door the moment it once again existed in a place where it had always been.
The door was always there. There was always a trick.
"I find it odd that you'd give up your only hold over me so early in the evening," Callahan said. "Are you actually trusting me to keep my word?"
"No, but I'd relish the sight of you fleeing me at the first opportunity, like all the hordes of all the hells are nipping at your heels," he said. "Because no matter how casually you might try to saunter off, no matter how much you swagger, that's what it would be... and more importantly, that's how it would be told. I can't say what that would do for your reputation, but it would advance mine considerably."
"How did I even end up here?" she asked.
"Through the door, I would imagine."
"I went to the picnic to terminate my primary target," she said, "only to find you'd somehow known I was coming..."
"You're always coming," he said. "No indelicacy intended."
"...and sent him away."
"I couldn't let you kill my brother."
"He isn't your brother," Callahan said.
"True, but he doesn't know that, and if he knew I had gone and let you kill him, he might start to get suspicious. Why do you want to kill old Karl, anyway? He's not exactly a bad sort."
"It's what I was made to do," she said.
"Does it give you pleasure to serve your former masters' will?"
"It scratches an itch," she said. "I wouldn't kill him just because they wanted me to, but that won't keep him alive, either. When I do it, it'll be because I want to."
"And it bothers you not a whit that you only want to because they wanted you to?"
"Why should it? I have lots of desires and no idea where most of them came from. I trust this one because I know its source."
12:05-12:35 - ~900 words (+600)
12:40-1:10 - ~1650 words (+750)
She entered through the black door.
Patrons always entered through the black door. It is the only door that exists for the public, and there is only one of it, though it can be found in many places. There are some doors that do not exist anywhere in particular. The black door is not one of them... that is to say, it does exist anywhere in particular that it needs to exist. I do not say that it existed everywhere, because that would imply a profusion of universes made up entirely of black doors. It exists as needed, neither appearing nor disappearing but simply being where it needs to be, when it needs to be there.
There are some places in some worlds where the black door is always needed, and so it can always be found by those who know to look. There are other places where it exists only infrequently. It does not come and go. When it is there, it has always been there. When it isn't, it has never been there. All who have seen the black door and visited the inn that lies beyond it know when it exists because they remember its existence. When it is gone they remember it only as stories, if they remember it at all.
The being known most recently as Jillian Callahan, student of offense turned teacher of defense, had passed through the black door before. Such a thing was to be expected. A mortal champion of a world... and she was a mortal, albeit a long-lived one... could only climb so high facing mortal challenges belonging to her own world.
Callahan had first been led to the Inn of the Black Door by rumors she heard from long-lived elves who died soon after. In her days, she had already faced off against gods, dragons, and giants. She had slain eldritch abominations for whom death itself proved to be a fairly abstract inconvenience. The world in which she had been created had not yet run out of challenges for her, but she was drawn to novelty.
This time that she came to the Inn, it was not to hunt. That galled her. Within the very essence of her soul, the natural mortal fear of eternity had been twisted and externalized into a revulsion for the eternal. She could sense the age and power of the drinkers in the taproom around her. She'd never come to the Inn specifically to start a fight within its walls, but it had happened.
The bartender, a slight and smooth-cheeked man, slipped out from behind his bar as she came into view. He glided towards her, his loose trenchcoat fluttering behind him like a cape. A number of the bar's more humanish patrons had actual capes on, a style choice that Callahan assumed reflected the fashions in worlds more closely connected to the Inn.
"Godslayer," the barkeep said to her, more by way of acknowledgment than greeting.
"Dark," she said.
"It has been a quiet night," he said. "I would consider it an immense favor if it remained so."
"How quiet do you want it?"
"Louder than the grave," he said. "At or about the same volume as it is now."
The bartender was immortal, not by nature but by dint of his own stubbornness and some impasse with his own god. She could feel that, and it both sickened and excited her. She refrained from killing him not out of politeness but because she'd done so on previous visits and it had never done any good.
"Relax, Johnny," she said. "This is a social call. I'm actually here on a date."
His eyes widened, but only by a bit and only for a moment.
"Ah," he said. "That is unfortunate."
"It is?"
"Yes, it means I owe the little trickster ten dollars."
Callahan, having been to the Inn and traveled the planes in at least a shallow wading sort of way understood this word to refer to a sort of money common in certain worlds, a fiat currency represented by paper or intangible numbers and backed by nothing but belief.
[]
"I took the liberty of ordering drinks," he said. "And drinking them."
"You take a lot of liberties," she said.
"They're medicinal," he said. "And anyway, I can stop any time I want. Start, too. Or keep going, or turn and go off in a different direction... you see, this is the beautiful thing about a life of liberty. You can do whatever you want."
"I want to see my eye," she said.
"This is a privilege few people have," he said. He reached into one of the many pouches that adorned his vest and pulled out a large jewelry box... larger still in his hand... and set it down on the table in front of him, facing her. He opened it.
Callahan nodded, then slid in on the other side of the booth. The box snapped shut and vanished
"Eye's grown back in nicely," he said.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "The terms of our deal are still the same."
"You only need two eyes," he said. "What are you going to do with a third one?"
"It's what you'd do with it that worries me," she said.
"Well, worry not... I've left it untouched," he said.
[One hour in.]
She entered through the black door.
Patrons always entered through the black door. It is the only door that exists for the public, and there is only one of it, though it can be found in many places. There are some doors that do not exist anywhere in particular. The black door is not one of them... that is to say, it does exist anywhere in particular that it needs to exist. I do not say that it existed everywhere, because that would imply a profusion of universes made up entirely of black doors. It exists as needed, neither appearing nor disappearing but simply being where it needs to be, when it needs to be there.
There are some places in some worlds where the black door is always needed, and so it can always be found by those who know to look. There are other places where it exists only infrequently. It does not come and go. When it is there, it has always been there. When it isn't, it has never been there. All who have seen the black door and visited the inn that lies beyond it know when it exists because they remember its existence. When it is gone they remember it only as stories, if they remember it at all.
The being known most recently as Jillian Callahan, student of offense turned teacher of defense, had passed through the black door before. Such a thing was to be expected. A mortal champion of a world... and she was a mortal, albeit a long-lived one... could only climb so high facing mortal challenges belonging to her own world.
Callahan had first been led to the Inn of the Black Door by rumors she heard from long-lived elves who died soon after. In her days, she had already faced off against gods, dragons, and giants. She had slain eldritch abominations for whom death itself proved to be a fairly abstract inconvenience. The world in which she had been created had not yet run out of challenges for her, but she was drawn to novelty.
This time that she came to the Inn, it was not to hunt. That galled her. Within the very essence of her soul, the natural mortal fear of eternity had been twisted and externalized into a revulsion for the eternal. She could sense the age and power of the drinkers in the taproom around her. She'd never come to the Inn specifically to start a fight within its walls, but it had happened.
The bartender, a slight and smooth-cheeked man, slipped out from behind his bar as she came into view. He glided towards her, his loose trenchcoat fluttering behind him like a cape. A number of the bar's more humanish patrons had actual capes on, a style choice that Callahan assumed reflected the fashions in worlds more closely connected to the Inn.
"Godslayer," the barkeep said to her, more by way of acknowledgment than greeting.
"Dark," she said.
"It has been a quiet night," he said. "I would consider it an immense favor if it remained so."
"How quiet do you want it?"
"Louder than the grave," he said. "At or about the same volume as it is now."
The bartender was immortal, not by nature but by dint of his own stubbornness and some impasse with his own god. She could feel that, and it both sickened and excited her. She refrained from killing him not out of politeness but because she'd done so on previous visits and it had never done any good.
"Relax, Johnny," she said. "This is a social call. I'm actually here on a date."
His eyes widened, but only by a bit and only for a moment.
"Ah," he said. "That is unfortunate."
"It is?"
"Yes, it means I owe the little trickster ten dollars."
Callahan, having been to the Inn and traveled the planes in at least a shallow wading sort of way understood this word to refer to a sort of money common in certain worlds, a fiat currency represented by paper or intangible numbers and backed by nothing but belief. It was a ridiculous and fantastic notion, but anyone who travels between worlds soon notes how what is pure fantasy in one frame may exist as fact in another.
"He's here, then?" she asked. She'd been idly entertaining the hope that he'd intended all along to stand her up or do some mischief elsewhere while she was off-world.
"He awaits you in one of the back booths."
Under normal circumstances, the Inn always had enough back booths. This was because like its door, the booths existed at need. Not only did their numbers match the needs of the Inn's clientele, but their size and shape did, too. They were all the same size, and that size was the right one. Big and wide enough for an ogre, small enough for a party of pixies, able to intimately accommodate a pair of lovers meeting for a quiet drink or an orgy that's been interrupted for emergency rehydration.
Thus, when Callahan slid with some ill-grace into the bench opposite the one who styled himself as the gods of gnomes, she found herself looking him in the eye. The table between them appeared perfectly level, and the benches on which they sat were the same size... but it was the right size, for him and for her.
Resolving the visual paradoxes inherent in the Inn's architecture and furnishing was not something that every mind in the multiverse could manage, which was among the reason that not everyone could find the black door.
"Owain," she said.
"My dear Jillian," he said. He gestured to the empty table. "I took the liberty of ordering drinks... and drinking them."
"You take a lot of liberties, gnomelord," she said.
"They're medicinal," he said. "And anyway, I can stop any time I want. Start, too. Or keep going, or turn and go off in a different direction... you see, this is the beautiful thing about living a life of liberty. It's so wonderfully freeing. You can do whatever you want."
"Right now, I want to see my eye," she said.
"Your replacement has grown back in nicely," he said.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "The terms of our deal are still the same."
"You only need two eyes," he said. "What are you going to do with a third one?"
"It's what you'd do with it that worries me," she said.
"Well, worry not... I've left it untouched," he said.
"I don't like to repeat myself."
"Then going into education was the worst mistake of your life."
"You may not be a real god, Owain, but I've killed things far older than you," she said.
"And far younger, I should expect, but I don't believe you've ever killed anything exactly my age before so I think I'm safe for the moment," he said.
"Show me my eye," she said.
"Oh, very well. This is a privilege few people have, without recourse to a mirror... and you get to do it in stereo, too," he said.
He reached into one of the many pouches that adorned his vest and pulled out a large jewelry box... larger still in his hand... and set it down on the table in front of him, facing her. He opened it.
"Are you satisfied that this is the item in question?" he asked.
Callahan nodded.
He nudged the box forwards across the table. "Go ahead, take it."
"Now?" she said.
"Whensoever it best suits you," he said.
She had not moved her hands at all since he had put the box down. It wasn't so much that she feared a trick, or even that she expected one... she knew there was a trick, the same way she'd known where to find the black door the moment it once again existed in a place where it had always been.
The door was always there. There was always a trick.
"I find it odd that you'd give up your only hold over me so early in the evening," Callahan said. "Are you actually trusting me to keep my word?"
"No, but I'd relish the sight of you fleeing me at the first opportunity, like all the hordes of all the hells are nipping at your heels," he said. "Because no matter how casually you might try to saunter off, no matter how much you swagger, that's what it would be... and more importantly, that's how it would be told. I can't say what that would do for your reputation, but it would advance mine considerably."
"How did I even end up here?" she asked.
"Through the door, I would imagine."
"I went to the picnic to terminate my primary target," she said, "only to find you'd somehow known I was coming..."
"You're always coming," he said. "No indelicacy intended."
"...and sent him away."
"I couldn't let you kill my brother."
"He isn't your brother," Callahan said.
"True, but he doesn't know that, and if he knew I had gone and let you kill him, he might start to get suspicious. Why do you want to kill old Karl, anyway? He's not exactly a bad sort."
"It's what I was made to do," she said.
"Does it give you pleasure to serve your former masters' will?"
"It scratches an itch," she said. "I wouldn't kill him just because they wanted me to, but that won't keep him alive, either. When I do it, it'll be because I want to."
"And it bothers you not a whit that you only want to because they wanted you to?"
"Why should it? I have lots of desires and no idea where most of them came from. I trust this one because I know its source."