The things I do for the E.P.R.F.L.L. Once again those famished wolves have been scratching at my door, I could hear their tongues dragging along through the surrounding woodlands as they scurried towards the Keeper’s cabin. One has to tread very carefully indeed when these scavengers come a knocking. Should they be menstrual, they can dismantle a man’s flesh from his bones within seconds with just one glare and if their thirsts are not quenched they will congregate around your quarters howling at the moon until they get what they came for.
Right now I can hear them attempting to burrow underneath my front door. I feel very much alone and vulnerable, toothless should they find their way inside my fortress. They hunt in packs so, despite my swiftness with the quill, I will likely be overrun. Sense of smell will no doubt lead them to any hiding place, they’re familiar with my crimson scent and will stop at nothing until they claim what is rightfully theirs.
It appears as though the only possible reprieve I will receive will be on the proviso that I give them exactly what it is that they crave. Maybe their voracious appetites will be whetted by a few sacrificial lambs, shall we say. The audio is getting louder now; it appears as though they have discovered a frailty in my fortifications and are taking advantage.
I run upstairs and it feels a little like moving sub aqua in a dreamscape. It is only my elevated survival instincts which carry me forward. The Keeper of the Crimson Quill can’t be overcome without at least bearing my own incisors. I must stand my ground, this is my sanctuary and I can’t simply do a Shelley Duval and cower in the corner, sniveling like a shrew.
My self-belief is heightened right now, the last week has been somewhat testing but I have come through it thus far with my mortality and dignity intact. But still I hear them gaining ground, I can’t hold them off for much longer. It’s shit or get off the pot and that means it’s time to take a massive metaphorical dump; stand my ground. Damned male pride, I find myself between a rock and a hard place, teetering over the stairwell akin to an inebriated tight-rope walker.
They’re in; the battle cry attests to that. It’s all the excuse I require to carry on my upward expedition into the only place sacred enough to deny their embittered advances. Rapidity is vital now, I can make out shadows on the interior of the construct. They are looming large and have a taste for crimson which, luck would have it, I possess in extensive supply.
It isn’t until they make their way through the downstairs area and towards my position that the realization sets in. There may no longer be sufficient time to flee. Nevertheless, I consider myself one of life’s triers and, push come to shove, I must dig in my heels. I have to imagine I have the Grueheads with me, keeping me safe from harm. Problem is, I can hear more of them climbing in as I scribe; who knows how many they have recruited without my knowledge. They could’ve formed a small army, all baying for my blood and ravenous to the extreme.
They’d tear me limb from limb, lick my bones and then use them to batter the last droplet of life-force from my twitching cadaver. Even worse, they could detain me in my quarters and force me into scouring the Internet for images using search terms such as ‘hot male bodies’ and ‘naked hunks’. I think I’d rather be dismantled.
They’re gathering formation around the stairwell now, moving slowly as they eye up their quarry. Snarling, saliva dripping in thick globules around their snapping jaws. I feel frozen in fear, unable to lift my leaden legs and doomed to receive the ravaging of these famished wolves. “Keeper, you have kept the ladies waiting and we don’t take kindly to procrastination” The words are teasingly delivered as though they feel my consternation and desire to make me squirm a little. “But…but I’m pretty much at the close of my article now, there’s no time” is my frantic retort. I’m fully aware that my answer will be greeted with hostility and have pretty much succumbed to the reality that my fleshy fleece will be sitting by the log burner with a foot stool on it very soon.
Their leader grasps me around the larynx and stares deep into my soul with her blood-red peepers. She then leans into me, tilting my head as though preparing to sink her incisors into the pliable flesh of my neck-quilt. Grimacing as I anticipate the imminent chow down, I’m pleasantly surprised when the words “one last chance Keeper” are whispered into my ear. That’s all I needed to hear, one chance is all you need if you plan to make the best of it.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
By the request of the E.P.R.F.L.L. the following gallery is dedicated to quenching their insatiable thirst. Of course, being Keeper I have a little something tucked up my sleeve, therefore you may find a little of my rebellion within the following gallery. I may well regret my insolence.