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August 28, 2003 |
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Albion Countryside - Gaslight...
Majestic, these ancient hills that rise and fall with the swell of sweet Albion's breast. Mighty oaks stretch heavenwards here and there, nestled in the bosom of their mother isle. The lush mounds of rich earth curve over the land, leading to swaying fields of heather and a solitary castle ruins perched atop the white cliffs of Dolver, overlooking the roar of crashing waves upon that pebbled beach. The skies are invariably overcast, but the fog of the city has left the countryside all but untouched by its misty veil. Instead, a chill in the breeze coming off the sea invigorates, the fresh scent of rain to come, or perhaps just recently passed, pervading the air. Spaced widely apart, the regal estates of the landed gentry and an occasional Carpathian nobleman take full advantage of the beauty of the unspoiled land. Though the periodic foot trail might be found, the only main road here is the one leading south to the city, the prints of hoof and steamcarriage wheel punctuating this well traveled byway. Alongside the city road, standing stones periodically loom over passersby or mark resting spots meant not for Mundanes.
Yosannah appears atop the cliffs in a rainbow sparkle.
The wilderness is thick - thorny brambles erupting from dried ditches where fresh springs once bubbled and frothed. No birds sing here - there is no rustle of wildlife or organic sound - only the dread eerie drift of a haunting melody from an unseen source:
"And he said, I will destroy you,
And he said, Your father's dead.
And he said, I can't allow you,
And he said, Into my head.
And he said, I'll never love you.
And he said, You'll never win.
And he said, I don't need you,
And he said, To remind me of my sins."
Wind wisps over Yosannah as she stands looking out over the cliffs and to the crashing waters below. Her head turns, eyes searching woods and hills for the unseen source of the melody. Waves of auburn spill over her eyes and she is forced to tuck loose strands behind her ear.
From the fathomless depths of the dead craggy woods the mysteriously melodious voice sings it's melancholy relic,
"And she said, I think I love you,
And she said, Please don't die,
And she said, I can't allow you,
And she said, To pass me by.
And she said, I'll never understand you,
And she said, I wish I could,
And she said, I think I need to,
And she said, To believe that you are Good."
Yosannah furrows her brow, green eyes squinting as she peers into the depths of the forests. Fingers from her left hand slide to the trinket on her right wrist and she mutters a soft command - the tenor of which is lost amongst the sound of rushing waves below the cliffs. She begins to move. Steps taking her toward the treeline while, at the same time, a mist of thick blue gray begins to pour from the item at her wrist.
Broken twigs and dry leaves litter your path casting an unnerving contrast to the buoyant lush greenery of the surrounding meadows. A pale wraith-like silhouette sits - her naked luminous limbs folded lotus-like above a perfectly circular patch of dehydrated earth and in her lap is a confection of wildflowers. The woman's eerie hymn fades upon livid lips into a droning hum as with deft fingers she weaves the flora into a wreath - each touch of her barren hands wilting the blossoms.
A large form begins to take shape off of Yosannah's left shoulder. A charger of the purest white with wings like those of angels. The creature follows after the woman, a disapproving snort flares its nostrals and hooves paw at the ground. She pauses, waiting for the creature to step beside her, and reaches up a reassuring hand to stroke it's mane, muttering a soft word of comfort. After a short moment, the two drift towards the pale wraith-like lady.
Ada-Shazandra floats a mere hair's-breadth above the dread halo of frozen ground - her woeful face wrought with a vision of chilling irrelevance as nimbly she braids dead flowers into a funeral wreath. Once more the woman's cold voice exhales a morbid melody,
"Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep, in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep."
Yosannah regards the woman cooly as she and the Pegasus creature approach. She is careful not to step upon the frozen earth. She mutters softly, "Lady?" The creature snorts again, tossing it's head lightly.
"Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles."
The words echo eerily subdued amid the silence and tepid decaying air of her desolate meadow. Slowly, Ada-Shazandra lifts her crying face: the sacred sigil freshly gored with blood drips ruddy tears along the lofty curves of unfeeling gaunt cheeks.
Yosannah is unable to surpress a wince and flinch at the sight of the woman. She takes one backward step in impulsive retreat, muttering, "Jesus." The creature beside her seems to agree, it's head bobbing twice. Yosannah extends her hand, projecting the essance of the Third Rider outward and toward the woman. She probes about her person, if the lady does not resist, searching for signs and clues as to Ada's condition.
Pale dully-glistening eyes look on like soulless mirrors - windows to the fires of frozen hell. Spindly lashes quiver yet do not blink as numb lips breathlessly resonate,
"As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
Offer thy cheek, and offer thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest."
And as she muses there is no ill - no plague. Pestilence finds no solace here - indeed there is nothing at all to rouse the jaded appetite of the Rider - only the vague familiarity of past prey.
Finding nothing of note, Yosannah's spell fades and the Rider's essance withdraws back into her form. She steps toward the woman and crouches before her, "Lady. Can you understand me. Can you hear me." She looks over her shoulder at the winged creature - as if it might have the answers to explain the woman's condition. It lowers it's head, drooping near the ground and regarding Ada-Shazandra from large orb-like eyes.
"O, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep,
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break."
Crimson blood-tears drip from the curve of her chiseled child-like chin splattering with an unsettling moist sound against the circle of harsh dry ground. A casual act of unintended mercy: Ada-Shazandra glances away, enigmatically blank expression affixed upon the crescent wreath of wilting flowers. Ardent fingers pluck the aromatic blooms and with her touch the petals wither, gray and curdle, yet she rhythmically sifts their fragile stems into the ever-growing rung of a garland.
Yosannah rests an elbow on her knee and she extends her hand as if inviting the lady to take it into her own, "Lady. Come with me. Let me take you home." She inclines her head toward the Pegasus, "I'll comand my friend to carry you if you aren't well. Please."
Ada-Shazandra replies, that Anglican relic of an eerie accent sifting through parched lips, "Death is kind, reluctant. All he wanted was a little company - now he has it." Your hand is ignored - though the tips of your espresso-manicured fingers are bathed with an uncanny chill - an arctic drop in temperature that sends prickly shivers down your spine.
Yosannah retracts her hand abruptly and rubs her fingers along the side of her jacket is if meaning to warm them by the friction of contact. "Death? Have you seen the Rider Death, Lady?"
Ada-Shazandra ties the last of the fading flowers into her wreath - the intricate circle of wilted herbs and blooms complete. Wan, her lissome arms drift forth - burdened beneath the canopy of perished flora. Her timbre lilts lukewarm: "Yes,
I walked abroad in a snowy day:
I asked the soft snow with me to play:
He played and melted in all her prime,
And the winter called it a dreadful crime!"
Yosannah lowers her head and her gaze to the ground with an exhale of breath. She reflects for a long moment and then inquires in hushed tones, "Did Death do this to you, Lady?"
Ada-Shazandra bestows the dead elaborately woven wreath upon your head, her frightening fathomless features affixed for a horrific fraction of a moment bluntly upon your face, "Death does not, but what is in it's nature." The woman replies before she sings a bizarre blessing:
"In a circle - Fishes swim in water clear,
In a circle - Birds fly up into the air,
In a circle - Serpents creep along the ground,
In a circle - Boys and girls run round and around."
Yosannah reaches lingering fingers to the floral wreath atop her head, fondling it lightly. , "Lady, I can't stay with you, and I am concerned for your well-being. But I must find the Rider, Death. It's avatar will, no doubt, be struggling with the change. Can you help me find the host, Lady?"
As your fingers touch the dry wreath - the fragile flowers crumble, swept by the wanton wind in a cloud of ash. For a brief specter of a moment you think you saw the woman smile - yet in her glassy eyes there is nothing - vacant green growing milky and overcast with the white-veined texture of flawed jade, "He will come for you when it is time."
Yosannah nods lightly at Ada-Shazandra's words. She moves to stand as flora falls about her shoulders. She makes no gesture to wipe the petals from her arms, "Lady, I need to be going. Are you certain you won't let me take you home. Please."
Ada-Shazandra chants, her phantomlike voice fading within the enchanted waves of trump, "Goodnight, Good Day, May flights of demons wing me to my rest, And he shall cry and say,'Twas for the best!'" She moves forward and vanishes, leaving behind a rapidly fading afterimage.