The Collection.
Posted: Sun Jun 05, 2005 6:01 am
In the deep-sunk bowels of the aerie, as the world outside sleeps its troubles away...
"Well, aren't you the pretty little thing."
There is no natural light here; there are no windows carved into the rough-hewn rock of her chamber's walls. But every available surface -- of which there are few -- supports candelabras, and they lend a brilliant, golden blaze to the room.
To her work, also. Thin vials stretch across the length of her broad desk, delicate glass filled with countless variations upon the theme of red. A set of fragile scales is set before her, its many small basins filled with more of the same; 'many', for these scales find balance in eight directions, rather than the customary two. One slim vial in particular has caught her attention, prompted the crooning comment. And:
"No, my Lord. Another. Always another."
The tools of her trade are colour, weight and a flawless memory; the poor golden hue of the room's light wreaks havoc with these and her eyesight alike. But she is compensated for such hazards. Richly. And eantime, there are the eyeglasses balanced upon the delicate bridge of her nose, lenses swapped in and out as the work demands. Which it does now, for as her left hand sketches blindly upon a near sheet of parchment, she indicates certain of these glittering vials, begins the recitation:
"Avel. And this, also Avel -- the foxes she'd slain. There's no resemblance, but I hadn't much expected one. This? Audmathus, from the Meetinghouse walls." Pauses, lips pursed. "Forgive me, my Lord: I cannot create a resemblance where there is none.
"This, from the tavern lawn; five samples, perhaps as many as six. These from the riot. They appear quite mundane, but there is yet work to -- my Lord named other priorities. The request was quite clear."
Richly compensated. A woman, even a courier such as herself, does well to remember such things at times like these.
"As you wish, my Lord. This, from the tavern room. It is my favourite, quite remarkable and not entirely inhuman. Perhaps you ought examine it yo -- why no, my Lord, I would not think to s -- Yes, my Lord. I understand that the threat has passed. Work will continue apace.
"This from the woods this week. There is no name for it; I term it 'Rot', for want of anything better."
The left hand pauses for a moment in its sketching, taps charcoal lightly upon the page.
"A reasonable likeness -- thank you, my Lord. Would that there were more to it than this, but it has caution; it leaves nothing, when it departs, has not even the blood in its veins to do so. I confess, it is beyond my reckoning: it arrives, it meddles at the lake, it tears at the trees -- it does precisely as it pleases, and none have yet given it much challenge. I have only one certainty to offer you, my Lord.
Unlike every other in the collection, this one possesses not a shred of humanity."
"Well, aren't you the pretty little thing."
There is no natural light here; there are no windows carved into the rough-hewn rock of her chamber's walls. But every available surface -- of which there are few -- supports candelabras, and they lend a brilliant, golden blaze to the room.
To her work, also. Thin vials stretch across the length of her broad desk, delicate glass filled with countless variations upon the theme of red. A set of fragile scales is set before her, its many small basins filled with more of the same; 'many', for these scales find balance in eight directions, rather than the customary two. One slim vial in particular has caught her attention, prompted the crooning comment. And:
"No, my Lord. Another. Always another."
The tools of her trade are colour, weight and a flawless memory; the poor golden hue of the room's light wreaks havoc with these and her eyesight alike. But she is compensated for such hazards. Richly. And eantime, there are the eyeglasses balanced upon the delicate bridge of her nose, lenses swapped in and out as the work demands. Which it does now, for as her left hand sketches blindly upon a near sheet of parchment, she indicates certain of these glittering vials, begins the recitation:
"Avel. And this, also Avel -- the foxes she'd slain. There's no resemblance, but I hadn't much expected one. This? Audmathus, from the Meetinghouse walls." Pauses, lips pursed. "Forgive me, my Lord: I cannot create a resemblance where there is none.
"This, from the tavern lawn; five samples, perhaps as many as six. These from the riot. They appear quite mundane, but there is yet work to -- my Lord named other priorities. The request was quite clear."
Richly compensated. A woman, even a courier such as herself, does well to remember such things at times like these.
"As you wish, my Lord. This, from the tavern room. It is my favourite, quite remarkable and not entirely inhuman. Perhaps you ought examine it yo -- why no, my Lord, I would not think to s -- Yes, my Lord. I understand that the threat has passed. Work will continue apace.
"This from the woods this week. There is no name for it; I term it 'Rot', for want of anything better."
The left hand pauses for a moment in its sketching, taps charcoal lightly upon the page.
"A reasonable likeness -- thank you, my Lord. Would that there were more to it than this, but it has caution; it leaves nothing, when it departs, has not even the blood in its veins to do so. I confess, it is beyond my reckoning: it arrives, it meddles at the lake, it tears at the trees -- it does precisely as it pleases, and none have yet given it much challenge. I have only one certainty to offer you, my Lord.
Unlike every other in the collection, this one possesses not a shred of humanity."