From: vagans@foreshadower.net
> The iron key turned and the heavy front door swung open.
> He entered the foyer and felt right at home, and sat in
> his chair in the alcove and whistled up the Mirror of
> Nana-Sin.
It had occured to Sourcerer that the use of the Mirror back
in 2009 to capture the beemice from the Generator's time
fields and hold them in the present so that they could be
used to switch it to 'maint mode', might allow him to
fulfill his promise to bring back Gargoyle's Feast every
Halloween. With the machine in 'maint mode', he couldn't
bring the Feast back and couldn't keep his promise. If he
switched it on, all hell could break loose.
The Mirror of Nana-Sin was the only object in the universe
made of slow glass besides the Meta Metaphor's mirror, and
it might be able to capture the Feast from the slow glass of
the Generator's mirror. But it could be a disaster, and
that's why he was at the Rancho alone.
He had been scanning for hours when he found it, snagged it,
and brought it into the present...
(__) Sourcerer
/(<>)\ O|O|O|O||O||O
\../ |OO|||O|||O|| Mirroring the shadows of futurity
|| OO|||OO||O||O since 1993
***
>From walton@blue.cse.ogi.edu Tue Oct 31 20:52:29 1995
Date: 1 Nov 1995 03:52:29 GMT
From: walton@blue.cse.ogi.edu
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk
Subject: Gargoyle's Feast (was Re: psycho (psukhe))
In article <475gdd$e36@peabody.colorado.edu>,
Sweet Poly wrote:
>In article <4746nt$k9q@reuter.cse.ogi.edu>,
>Lisa Walton wrote:
>Thumps and bumps emanate from Poly's rooms as she tries to
>get herself ready for a temporary leave of absence. What
>to take, what to leave behind? She adores packing, but is
>stressing from the overwhelming complexity of this, the
>second move of three. Suddenly, she stops dead in her
>tracks as she remembers something *really important* she
>needs to do. Hurrying dowstairs to the basement, she
>begins crafting something at the workbench -- screech of
>metal cutting metal, flying sparks, a crucible blazing
>away...
>
>A couple of hours later, she trudges upstairs, tired but
>satisfied -- she can now leave this place free of cares for
>awhile. Pausing at Lisa's door (no sound from within,
>Lisa's out and about, enjoying the night), she slides a
>little flat package under the door, and slips quickly away
>to finish her packing, and spend some time with the batcats
>and beemice, and toss a treat to Sourcerer's dragon...
>maybe share a cup of tea with Sourcerer in his tower...
>
>>Meanwhile Sym, the caretaker of her dreams, gamboles
>>endlessly under a starless sky, reveling in the clarity,
>>in the cold, and the silence.
>
>Lisa finds the package as soon as she returns; kicking it
>halfway across the floor before she sees it.
Though nervous at having her shadowed lair discovered, Lisa
recognizes Poly's touch and philosophically realizes that
nothing can be truly hidden from The Mistress. A snap of her
fingers causes small braziers in a myriad of nooks and
crannies to burst out in flame and tiny billows of scented
smoke. She tilts her head; Good, they were perfectly quiet
that time. Smiling, she begins to open the gift
>The black tissue paper with the purple ribbon comes away to
>reveal:
>a second set of keys for the Rancho. They're matte black,
>and very ornate -- leering skulls with rubies for eyes.
>There are over half a dozen, in various sizes, and they are
>strung together with a blood red satin ribbon, that Lisa
>can tie them to her belt with, or use to hang them from
>around her neck.
>Rent this month should be given to Lisa. @:)
< Ah, I shall try and earn it then... >
Lifting the precious gift from the wrappings, she places the
largest key against her cheek, enjoying the touch of cold
iron and blood rubies...her senses revel in the tang of the
forge and the savor of death...
Striding to a small coffer set on a dark, low pedastal, she
lifts out a set of long, cruelly barbed earrings.
Fastening them at three points on each ear, she binds the
keys to the hooks with strands of her own hair, black on
black, red highlights amongst the ebony. Ruby eyes glint in
the darkness flowing over her shoulders.
A rush of wings, and Sym arrives to escort her to the
Gargoyle's Feast. She inspects herself in an ornate mirror
and smiles in anticipation, ebony nails tapping crimson
lips. Sym moans in mingled ecstasy and terror, and taking
her hand leaps out into the chill darkness.
Flanked by a contingent of silent gargoyles, Lisa proceeds
to the clearing, crushing death under every step. Boughs of
hemlock hide frozen earth, Nightshade lines the path, and
Death Angel mushrooms festoon every gnarled tree. There is
silence: moonlight reflects off gleaming fangs and twitching
talons.
The guest of honor, frozen in a coating of dragon fewets,
shivers and jerkily struggles in mindless, primal terror. A
thin wail keens up and out of his chest, burbling against
the dragon scale mask...
She laughs. Rich and deep it echos off distant stone,
returning hollowly, answered by moans and wails. At an
unseen signal drums begin to sound, or is it just the
thrumming of hundreds of wings, flexing in rhythm?
Sputtering in the oily reptilian musk, fear receeds as
ancient instincts respond. Flexing his fingers (talons?) he
moans and yearns for the Maiden's Kiss. Frozen again (or is
he Burning Up?) the sturdy scaffolding shudders as he
writhes in his bonds, mindlessly responding to the rhythms
in the night.
"Who is it, my daemon?" Lisa whispers, running white fingers
over Sym's spiny crest. Stepping forward, a skillful prod of
the Black Whip elicits a groan of pain and desire from the
writhing figure...
"Ah, do not tell me. He shall be them all. All shall pay
tonight."
Synchopating rhythm, boots on stone. She ascendes the dias,
sinking into the chill embrace of her Throne of Bone. "Sing
for me, my dark angels. Laugh and Play."
Alone on the scaffolding, the Honored Guest, the (soon to
be) Willing Sacrifice howls in Fear and Need. Shrieks of
pain and terror punctate the wet, sick cracking of sundering
limbs...loathly brews achieve deadly perfection, smaller
daemons fall stunned to the earth, becoming living groaning
carpets upon which the larger ones dance.
Alone on her Throne, Lisa surveys her Dark Children and
smiles again, sipping a deadly smokey brew of her own. Small
fires start up around the perimeter of the clearing, lurid
red and black flames reflecting in dark ageless eyes.
[continued in next message]
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)
|
