Suggested Audio Candy
Hirax “La Bocca De La Bestia”
I just awoke from a particularly furious phantasm, only this particular dreamscape was drastically different to any which have preceded it. It took place in the most inexorable of locales, a place of provocation, concentrated suffering and the deathly cries of so many young sprites. I was shackled in a small roost thinly and sparsely decorated. Not the shade of fresh linen however, the walls were discolored, damp and smeared with what appeared to be dried sanguine fluids and feces.
It was those cries which made my ears’ acquaintance before I even found my bearings and they were sustained with constancy as the realization set in that my surroundings bore distinct similarities to a place I had, until recently, not been made privy to. There was another audio accompanying those pleading howls of repentance, that being the incessant ramblings of another, seemingly only a few feet away, the other side of the partition to be precise. I recall pressing my ear to the divider in an attempt at making sense of the muttering. As I stretched across the sudden pain which hit me was excruciating, causing me to involuntarily choke up the warm tacky bile which had clotted within my windpipe.
Once I had recovered initially from the searing sting I leaned forward to investigate what had caused such a vicious sweep of agonizing desolation. My glazed peepers attempted to focus in on the source, and through my decidedly contorted vision I could just about make out the jagged arrangement of barbed wire bounding my ankles to the sturdy bed frame. They were accompanied by what I could only fathom to be a skipping rope, doused in both the dried brownish cruor of another, meshing with my own dark crimson. I felt pangs of exquisite affliction never before thought feasible, but it was tempered with a sadistic pleasure which surged with intent through my every fiber, but most notably within my pulsating loins.
I recall the irony of that opposing delight, set against a sickness which reached way down to my abdomen. And as I blinked momentarily I found myself laying sprawled across my insular temporary abode, no less feces encrusted but considerably more placid than the hell hole I’d just vacated. The aroma stinging my nostrils was now of fresh semen and soiled linen.
Friday 14th June 2013 11.00am
One cruel step away now, my travels take me to my final safe haven before my date with almost certain oblivion. My fantasies have been plagued by this swanky savage, those lucid imaginings now bleeding into my everyday life. So much so in fact, that I can smell to cavernous brimstone the pungent funk of decaying flesh as if nestled directly below my nose, the dread beginning to hang in the air like an impenetrable palpable fog. I’ve come too far now to turn back, he’d find me regardless. No I must press on, I owe that much to my beloved Grueheads. Besides, I learned much from my chat with Matt Farnsworth and, as I make those jittery steps towards Diane Foster’s coordinates, I just pray she will enlighten me of a late booking Marcus Miller made to Hawaii (can you envisage customs attempting to pat him down?).
Word on the street suggests Audrey is taking refuge in Foster’s safekeeping as she assembles for his homecoming (I’m guessing he won’t come bearing floral garlands). As I knock on the door half-heartedly I need to remind myself who I am. “Grow a spleen Keeper!” or words akin are wafting around inside my head as I await a response and it is then that I hear the pad of feet seemingly advancing on my position from the other side of the door.
I inhale a nervy breath (once again metallic and course) and realign my posture so as not to appear devolved, with that the door begins to unbolt. I instantaneously begin to feel a sense of mollification, those shimmering eyes are like estuaries of empathy and perch cosily, encircled by soft untarnished membrane and a disarmingly striking mischievous beam. She’s every bit as divine as contemplated…more so! Diane Foster and Matt Farnsworth are like two perfectly sculptured gargoyles perched either side of the entryway to what appears is my own wake.
It is hard just to blink, a feeling I’ve already experienced standing before the almighty Matt Farnsworth, my retinas are drier than a snake charmer’s espadrille and my tongue furrier than a sack of slayed squirrels. ‘I need to ask my first question!’ chases through my cranium, but I fear the only emission will be flatulence of high-pitched irrational drivel. Nevertheless, I feel alarmingly docile, the imminent threat suddenly appearing to fade…just a little. A quick clear of the throat and an exhalation of air which appears to have been stored up for over a minute now, and at long last Keeper relocates his voice box.
I stand before the dark abyss, teetering over my own cruel destiny,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
First Knight of TOK
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013