 |
| Even spectres dared not trespass the moats of Castle Aisling. |
Razor-sharp fingertips clicked ominously on the
dusty table. Upon the elongated surface,
ash veins streaked through cold, pale marble.
Metal finger-points drummed again, this time louder, sending dust-moths
fluttering up into the stolid air.
“Drink!”
Queen
Hunllef’s voice resounded through the banquet hall with such an authority as to
set the crows nested in the disused chimney to rustle their ebon wings. Beyond the wooden doors with their peeling
frames, quickly shuffling movements could be discerned.
The
tall entrance creaked open to allow a dilapidated waif of a creature to
enter. Tattered robes hung like loose
skin over its skeletal frame and though it walked, it never seemed to take and
actual footstep so much as float over the ragged carpet.
“DRINK!” The cry of the Bleak Queen caused the waif to
recoil in pain, now that it was standing just at the corner of the table. “You spineless imbecile, can’t you see my
guests thirst??”
In fact, the hollow-backed servant could not
see her Majesty’s imaginary guests. This
feasting hall was nothing but cobwebs and ashes. Stale chunks of bread were strangely stacked
upon tarnished silver serving caddies as if they were fresh as baked scones. Fruit cups held corpses of shriveled grapes
and bowls of cream had moldered over until only a carpet of spores lined their
inner curve.
Deathsight was a natural to the Sluagh, but
even the specters of those passed on dared not trespass the moats of Castle
Aisling. On this evening of Samhain, it
would have even been likely that some attended her meal, but there were none. It
was echoed through the low-creeping fogs of their burial mounds and yards that
to breach her domain was to risk final consumption.
 |
| The feasting hall was nothing but cobwebs and ashes; stale bread was strangely stacked on tarnished caddies as if they were fresh scones. |
One iron fingertip scraped discordantly along a
porcelain plate, chipped around the edges.
The Bleak Queen turned her quarry in her finger tips, as if speaking to
it through her black gaze. Her bladed
wings scissored together, in a self-sharpening flap, shearing the upholstery of
the high-backed chair further. Hunllef
didn’t notice.
The waif glided silently by her toward the far
end of the banquet table. With a vicious sneer, Hunllef hurled the dried
carcass at the exposed spine of the Sluagh.
From the front it had a ghostly beauty, but from behind it’s back was
skinless and the Bleak Queen wanted to see if the fowl-bones would fall through
its preternaturally limber frame and hit the floor.
Shaking with the physical pain of both her
Majesty’s voice as well as her physical assault, the Sluagh grimaced and
clenched its teeth through translucent lips.
Urn clattered against goblet as the waif tried to feign pouring steadily
into the dry glasses.
As it drew nearer to the head of the table,
where the Bleak Queen herself was seated, the fear gnawing at the place where a
stomach should be was churning and devouring itself in an endless cycle of
tightening pain.
Tipping the funeral-carafe all the way this
time, one drop, then two…three. Three
drops of dark glamour curdled forward into her vessel, swirling like a rainbow
in grey-scale.
 |
| "Then. We. Shall. Find some." Her abyssal gaze turned upon the Sluagh and it felt engulfed in darkness as she spoke. "Ready the bey-hounds." |
Hardly had the pouring commence when the Bleak
Queen screeched and flew up from her seat. Hunllef’s hands pounded down on the
table once as she leaned in close to the waif’s pallid face and hissed venomously.
“What is this bile!?” Mere drops!” Reseating
herself, she focused again on her spectral banquet and waved a hand regally. “More
wine! How can we feast on this night of
the thin veil without libation?!”
For a moment she seemed to have forgotten the
Sluagh was still standing by the arm of her tattered, claw-foot chair. The Bleak Queen turned a dark eye upon the
waif, who finally managed to speak.
“The cask…” it made a dusty, choking sound that
seemed to clear its throat, and then whispered simply. “The casket is empty, Your Majesty.”
The Bleak Queen flung her arm in a rage, back-handing
her onyx goblet across the room. It
shattered against the hearth with a crash, causing the Sluagh waver with pain. The waif’s sunken face seemed to recede even
further under protruding cheekbones at the admonition.
“Donors
are scarce, Madame.”
“Then.
We. Shall. Find some.” That abyssal gaze turned now at the Sluagh, who was no
stranger to the otherworld, and seemingly engulfed it in darkness as she
spoke. “Ready the bey-hounds and saddle
my nightmare.”
No comments:
Post a Comment