Revenant
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Joined: 20 Mar 2005
Posts: 128
Location: FrogBlasting the VentCores everywhere!
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 Posted: Mon Oct 03, 2005 9:24 pm Post subject: OT-Engrish Homework! New! Improved! Funny! Good! Buy! Now! |
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Contrary to my title, this is a horror story.. (Well, if anyone can summon an inkling of horror out of it.. ;D) I had to write it for english class. Either parody a Brothers Grimm story to make it like Edgar Allen Poetry (My way of saying "Like Poe's"), or make up your own story, blah dee blah. I chose the latter. Enjoy.... well.... depends on whether or not I did it okay... Respond. Good people.
P.S.: Ignore the italicised underlined words... XP
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O! What a chilling prospect is that of murder, of its irrevocable retribution incumbent upon all who perform it, and the final destination in the flaming, scream-ridden conflagration of a final resting place for the sin tainted soul. Yet, one cannot deny that it suffices merrily, as a method of prolonging the survival of oneself, in a political and mental standpoint. Yes, it focuses the mind, preparing it for any position in which a peril consisting of persons may occur. I have dabbled in the practice myself, once upon a time, and now and then. Though many would take it upon themselves to call it a sin –for a sin it may be—, it does not cause such harsh retribution if performed perfectly, and in a nearly unclear nor untraceable nor discoverable manner. Leave no tracks, seen be not, and let the wiser be yourself, and only yourself.
Now, given this subject of murder--this practice--, I will assure you that I am not mad. It is a natural thing in life, to murder. Coneys the Foxes do murder. A plethora of vegetables the Coneys do murder. So you see, that I am not mad. Murder is a perplexing and yet a perfectly normal aspect of goings-on in every-hour whatnot.
My humble—oh so humble-- abode is fettered inside a grand castle somewhere in an exotic jungle of sorts, the likes of which harbors a deep pertinacity for becoming a target for volumes of massive discharges of a normally cold and slick substance the higherarchs continue to brand with the title of rain. I would call it a heresy, though naught but the fact that my Lord deems it precious stays my tongue from flinging my kind language at its monstrous and maniacal pattering. Due to such acts of the Gods, our nearby landscape of the jungle is constantly hidden in shadow. A bleak wood, once full of life, but now blighted with this dead shadow, and the audacity of constant rain, and drenched in a strange and peculiar fog, that of which is the mains subject of many a lie, wreathed in superstitious scuttlebutt. Many claim that it carries sicknesses for the mind. It is this fog which also winds its way among the numerous parapets and turrets of the majestic castle, and which’s way it makes through windows and openings in the towers. Some mutter that it reveals the thoughts of those who have died, and torments others as it stealthily makes its way through apertures in the ramparts, as though it were not an alien to our home. I myself have never perceived this indoor fog phenomenon on my nightly rounds, so it is probably just another hoax—a farce—if you will.
Now, this tale begins with a man, who like myself would fight for his survival. Every soul does. And it is accepted as life. This man happened to be a direct connection to the king—a connection like myself, but essentially of a higher grade-- or at least he had been for a small time. He who had less than a few days to live, a kind hearted man, yet required he was to die, and so I drew my plan against him. It was, arguably, the perfect, most wildly undertaken plan, one so stealthy and so easily achieved, with proper skill, which of that I contained much. I feel duty bound to remind you that madness, my problem is not. A passion such as utterly removing that which is a bad thing cannot be so foolish, if one would reflect upon it.
This man had I given no chance to perceive my good feelings for him, flourishing a myriad of monumental merriment at his position, letting a hair slip not. So perfectly was my disguise portrayed, that I judge he had no inkling of his own demise. After several days of fête, under the case of his appointment, my “engagement” took the occasion to divulge itself. It also happened to be a rare day, one without the cursed rain, and even superior by other human entity’s standpoints, a lack of the mist. Whilst a festival took full swing, I charged a servant around the brink of the party with the task of providing my client, Harlequinn—Harlequinn, for that was his surname—with a message under my own surname. This potentially fatal letter alerted him to the task of meeting me in the northern edge of the woodland proximate to one of the wells of water.
Water is usually easily managed in the castle, through a number of ways. One of such is by siphoning water from a plethora of wells. They are copious, as there are plentiful torrents below the earth, each flowing from the northern mountains to the southern wastes -- wastes in which other enemies dwell--, and as such there are plenty of wells, including one in the bastion. Many are simply great round fissures in the earth, a black hole through which an ominous rushing sound can be divulged. There is nothing to halt a child from plummeting into the dreadful twisting underworld of liquid and foam, because the rains utterly ravage our progress on mud walls. Not that our offspring would venture out in any case. The intangible fear of the mists and the bracken what contains it regularly wards them. I myself regularly stress not going to even the outer walls. The interior of the stronghold is spacious enough, but save a man—that man of whom I took my business with tonite.
I donned a roquelaure of deepest night, drawing it close around my person, on which a shell of fortificating design, whether sword or bow chanced its eminence, adorned in an ebony scabbard, the hilt of a blade just discernible above my waist. And the third article I pride myself with, the completion of my scheme. A mask, simple enough, save for its noteworthy luster of pure white, like bones. This was my headpiece and totem, and for protecting my identity from Harlequinn, just as well keeping a wave of superstition about the undertaking. And so I strode through a passage leading clear of the castle. The guards had been recently duped into the merriment, a planned blessing for myself. How perfect my scheme had gone so far, the children of children still to be would speak of it in trepidation, for my act was—indeed--- perfect. How can I, who had such an act of quality, be deemed mad? Truly, madness I have not!
The wood was deprived of the abhorrent rain, but not of shadow, nor the haze, which had lessened somewhat, but still sprang up promiscuously. The vista carried the allure of a crypt. As the well grew nearer, roots of the alders and firs—or what tree did grow here. I did not know—fettering themselves to my boots. I stumbled, and someone called “Is that you, Oviladre?” Oviladre—for that was my name which I went by—would have the privilege of curing his disease, his enemy –for Harlequin had mocked him too long--. The hellishly dark split loomed ahead. My patient peered out from under a mask, his face hidden in shadow. I addressed him.
“You, who trespass on what you should not. Prepare to die.”
He quaked like a leaf in the autumn wind. “What gives me such a privilege of death, O lord?”
“You know of it. But come. Before you die, I would have you fight nobly and die in battle.”
I drew my sword, and he did his. We came together, steel ringing on steel. I retreated, his sword waving into the ground, and I smote him in the legs. His yell penetrated the gloom like a siren’s call. I called back, loudly, until my foe found his resolve to resume his breath, drawn raggedly. Coldly, I laughed, a long and deep laugh. The face of the one engaged to death drained of color beneath the hood.
“And now you die, Harlequinn.”
“No! Please spare me! I am not Harlequinn!”
“You jest. That name suits you, Harlequinn, the Jester.”
I kicked him into the abyss of the well, receiving not a scream. I then turned and strode back through the wood, resuming my cry. The rain had begun to fall.
The mists were in full force by the time I reached the grand palace. The haze and rain tormented me no longer, transcending my awareness. A great encumbrance eradicated itself from my body, which took up a brisk stride in agreement. A handful of sentries questioned my arrival, but after a quick conversation, I was waved through, my mask beforehand placed within my robe. No one questioned my presence, no truncheon brought upon to subdue me. The plan had gone off perfectly, and the practice of slaughter, once again, corroborated its competence. You see that madness it was not. A testament to madness, perfection be not. Inside, several halls past my inquisitors, a sudden tremor wracked across my consciousness. A distinct voice filled of pain called my name. I frantically discovered that naught but myself inhabited the area, and yet it came again, a malice burning inside. I then beheld a great and terrible apparition. A hall proportionate to mine, save blood staining the partitions, a smell of ash, of fire. A terribly desiccated body, its limbs upon abnormal hinges, hung overturned from the ceiling, its skin charred and altered beyond comprehension. Two orbs of white adorned its face, contesting my will, and I lost. The antechamber sped by as my mind struggled in vain to perceive a conclusion to the revenant, and a great hall presented itself to me. Dead things swirled in a never-ending spiral, and a crevasse in the masonry upon the floor leaked apart into a glowing red pit of fire. A malignant and twisted form arose, wings and horns creating a bizarre and horrific creature of fire and death. I knew now who spoke my name. It came at me, only to disappear as the pang of my name rang again and again in my ears. The world returned, and Harlequinn revealed himself to me.
“Oviladre! My good fellow! What ails you? You look as though a ghost you perceived!”
“Harleqinn.” I muttered under my breath, my mind blank to all else.
“Come! Let us go, my friend! There is a quandary we must attend to!”
“Whatever… you would have…. me do. My Lord.” My coherence failed. The pit creature returned, a grin of flames wreathing his chin. And it faded with a roar to the specter before me, who grinned happily, oblivious. Why did he not see these things – oh, the THINGS. The monstrosities. The aliens. The ABOMINATIONS. -- , why did he torture me with his indifference to my plight? Why did a dead person return, to haunt the one who had he been killed by naught but a time ago? I followed most mechanically, the world around me unforgiving in the answers.
“The interior well is blocked, so we’re unplugging it now.” Harlequinn muttered cheerfully as I followed. The fog had entered the castle. It swirled around the feet of onlookers as they scrutinized the interior castle well. But none looked down to stare at the fog. None screamed as skeletal hands embraced their legs. They all mocked me, in this great conspiracy.
Several men strong took grasp of a rope what united to the bucket of water inside, and heaved mightily. The voiced of fire called again, unexpected. The taut rope slackened with a peculiar noise emanating from the well. A swish of water accompanied the cries of “Heave, ho!” as the strong men lifted something from the abyss—to my eyes, it was a great flaming pit--, and then my comrade cried out.
“There is a body in the water!”
And I was back in the fiery pit. My flaming, floating foe gestured behind himself at two great gates. His knowing eyes left no room for me to escape. I yelled, “Yes, please! Rid me of this torment! Release me from the world! Remove me from this jest!” And the gates opened, and the vision was gone. I looked into the well. I knew who it was now. The man’s hood had been ripped away to reveal his strangely unharmed face, shrouded in a fog that floated in the void. I perceived suddenly a great thumping of my own heart. It grew louder as this man –who I knew had been Harlequinn’s servant—rode from the blackness. Finally, the pounding was unbearable.
“O let him rest, you dogs! He is Harlequinn’s servant who I killed at the northern well!”
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Hypothesis: Barrel > You
Conclusion: Godmode on |
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