I can’t remember where I came from exactly. My only childhood memory is of a dusty attic with lots of old board games in it. I can’t remember my parents, either. Or my brothers or sisters, if I had any.
But I do remember my friends. Chess. Risk. Mah Jong. Stratego. And I remember how cold it was while I sat there playing these games against myself, sometimes for days. I wouldn’t say I was happy, because happy doesn’t quite fit. I was absorbed though, and even better I didn’t have to think about . . . about other things.
After I was taken it was clear that I’d developed a wonderful set of transferable skills in that cold attic. Instead of dice and cardboard abstractions I started playing for real, using contracts and the warriors of my Lord’s goblin hosts. And what happy days they were !
I found that I had a natural appreciation for the elegant economy of the severed artery. The straight path of the sliced tendon. The sweet snap of the separated vertebrae. Magnify that by the thousands my Lord’s minions dispatched at my instruction and you might understand how fulfilled I was, how content in the calm eye of an eternal storm of war.
To this day I don’t know what went wrong. Although, no. No that’s not quite true. I do know what went wrong, at least in a general sense.
What went wrong is that we lost.
When I realised it was all up I joined the exodus of my fallen Lord’s followers. We were a pitiable bunch, although it wasn’t pity that saved me from the vengeful glee of my pursuers. It was just that I chose to escape through the hedge rather than try to hide within it.
So here I am, looking for enough pieces to start a new game.
Interested ?
Showing posts with label Changeling: The Lost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Changeling: The Lost. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Monday, 24 August 2009
The stem was twice as thick as a middle finger and as hairy as a spider’s leg. It ended in a fat green bulb which had been split open by six white petals. Each was as big as a sweaty palm, and a fleshy purple stamen thrust from between their limp applause. It bobbed obscenely as I picked it up.
‘Eat the whole thing and you’ll satisfy even the most demanding of ladies,’ the stall keeper told me with an oily leer.
‘How much?’ I asked. He shrugged, pulled on his earlobe and contrived to look as though the question hadn't crossed his mind until that very moment.
‘Say half a dozen milk teeth,’ he decided.
I nodded non-committally and strolled down the table to examine a cluster of fruits which looked a little like plastic grapes. The berries were as big as a thumbnail, and so hard and green that they looked more like a promise of indigestion than anything else.
‘Wards off dogs,’ the stall keeper promised.
‘I like dogs,’ I said.
‘Wards off wolves too,’ he added hopefully but I had already moved on to what I had wanted all along.
The seed pods were as yellow as turmeric and as sweet smelling as sandalwood. They were perfectly dessicated, and the seeds within rattled like maracas when I picked them up. They would have made a fine pot pouri. As food they looked as appetising as wood shavings, but I knew their worth.
‘What are these?’ I asked ingenuously.
‘Slake pods,’ the stall keeper told me. ‘Boil one in enough water and it will feed six people for a day. Tastes good, too.’
I raised a questioning eyebrow and the stall keeper, scenting a sale, spat into his hand and offered it to me.
‘My word on it,’ he said ‘And all I ask in return is the same weight in hair.’
I pretended to hesitate, then shrugged and grasped his sticky hand. It was a fair price, and I’d already spent a morning looking for them.
‘Blond good enough for you?’ I asked, producing a paper bag of shorn hair.
‘Lovely,’ he said, rubbing his hands eagerly together. ‘Lovely.’
It was always a pleasure to go shopping at the market.
‘Eat the whole thing and you’ll satisfy even the most demanding of ladies,’ the stall keeper told me with an oily leer.
‘How much?’ I asked. He shrugged, pulled on his earlobe and contrived to look as though the question hadn't crossed his mind until that very moment.
‘Say half a dozen milk teeth,’ he decided.
I nodded non-committally and strolled down the table to examine a cluster of fruits which looked a little like plastic grapes. The berries were as big as a thumbnail, and so hard and green that they looked more like a promise of indigestion than anything else.
‘Wards off dogs,’ the stall keeper promised.
‘I like dogs,’ I said.
‘Wards off wolves too,’ he added hopefully but I had already moved on to what I had wanted all along.
The seed pods were as yellow as turmeric and as sweet smelling as sandalwood. They were perfectly dessicated, and the seeds within rattled like maracas when I picked them up. They would have made a fine pot pouri. As food they looked as appetising as wood shavings, but I knew their worth.
‘What are these?’ I asked ingenuously.
‘Slake pods,’ the stall keeper told me. ‘Boil one in enough water and it will feed six people for a day. Tastes good, too.’
I raised a questioning eyebrow and the stall keeper, scenting a sale, spat into his hand and offered it to me.
‘My word on it,’ he said ‘And all I ask in return is the same weight in hair.’
I pretended to hesitate, then shrugged and grasped his sticky hand. It was a fair price, and I’d already spent a morning looking for them.
‘Blond good enough for you?’ I asked, producing a paper bag of shorn hair.
‘Lovely,’ he said, rubbing his hands eagerly together. ‘Lovely.’
It was always a pleasure to go shopping at the market.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Blood in, blood out.
That was the way it always had been, that was they way it always would be, and that was the way that it was. Alvin had known it. Everybody who knew about the Brotherhood knew it. That's why he hadn't hesitated when they'd lined him up with the nigger in cell 43/K. He'd just gone straight in and done what was required.
Sometimes, when he thought about it afterwards, he felt kind of funny. Kind of sick. He never let on, though. He wanted people to think that he was a cold blooded killer. He wanted them to remember that fire-hardened plastic was as dangerous as an AK in his hands, and that the coroner had said that the body was already dead by the time he'd inflicted the twelfth stab wound, let alone the forty seventh.
He wanted them to think these things because he wanted respect.
People talked about prison currency. They talked about cigarettes, or drugs, or sex. But Alvin didn't give a shit about any of that because he knew, right down in the middle of him, that the only currency that mattered was respect.
That was why, when the order had come down from the Grand Master to off the governor, he hadn't hesitated. The governor had failed to show respect. Perhaps he'd let his job and his uniform and his pension go to his head. Perhaps there was some other reason. Alvin didn't care. He just slipped the splinter of razor blade under his tongue, got himself within striking distance, and sliced open the governor's carotid.
It was incredible really, the amount of blood. Even when Alvin was on the floor, wondering if the guards were going to carry on beating him until he was dead, he was amazed by it.
The guards didn't kill him. Not quite. But by the time he'd been transferred from the infirmary to the isolation cell, the new governor had settled in. He'd brought his own guards with him, and they were the ugliest bunch of weirdos Alvin had ever seen. Then, after a while, he started to hear the stories. Stories about cons disappearing and going crazy and committing suicide on the wire. He didn't care, but still. It was interesting. The new governor seemed to be having some sort of effect.
Then, one night, the new governor came to visit.
He wasn't wear a uniform. He hadn't shaved. He didn't even seem to have washed. He stank of stale sweat and pickled cloves and Alvin smelled him before he even entered the cell. Before he could comment, though, he caught the new governor's eye and all of a sudden he didn't want to talk. He just wanted to listen.
Afterwards, they went for a walk. The lights in the halls had all been smashed, so the only thing Alvin saw of the guards was the hungry glitter of their eyes as they padded past. He was pretty sure that removing the lights like this was against regulations, but the strangest thing was that it was so quiet. There were no whistles, no catcalls, not even any screams of men gripped by nightmares. Instead there was a heavy, liquid silence, breathless and terrified.
When they stepped outside into the moonlit sand of the exercise yard the first thing Alvin noticed was the archway. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night sunlight, gold and green as if filtered through a forest, streamed out of it. Things moved on the other side, too. Fascinating things that he couldn't quite make out.
The governor smiled when he asked Alvin if he wanted to go through, because of course Alvin did. He'd never wanted anything so much in his entire life.
Then the governor asked him if he was prepared to pay the price. He gestured to a shadow on the sand, and Alvin found that he wasn't surprised to see the Grand Master of the Brotherhood, gagged and tightly bound. When the governor gave Alvin the familiar shard of razor blade, rusty but still sharp, the Grand Master whimpered but it did him no good.
Alvin didn't hesitate. Blood in, blood out. That was the way it always had been, the way it always would be, and the way that it was. How could it be any different ?
After he had finished he stepped though the arch and into the sunlight, as gory and innocent as a new born babe.
That was the way it always had been, that was they way it always would be, and that was the way that it was. Alvin had known it. Everybody who knew about the Brotherhood knew it. That's why he hadn't hesitated when they'd lined him up with the nigger in cell 43/K. He'd just gone straight in and done what was required.
Sometimes, when he thought about it afterwards, he felt kind of funny. Kind of sick. He never let on, though. He wanted people to think that he was a cold blooded killer. He wanted them to remember that fire-hardened plastic was as dangerous as an AK in his hands, and that the coroner had said that the body was already dead by the time he'd inflicted the twelfth stab wound, let alone the forty seventh.
He wanted them to think these things because he wanted respect.
People talked about prison currency. They talked about cigarettes, or drugs, or sex. But Alvin didn't give a shit about any of that because he knew, right down in the middle of him, that the only currency that mattered was respect.
That was why, when the order had come down from the Grand Master to off the governor, he hadn't hesitated. The governor had failed to show respect. Perhaps he'd let his job and his uniform and his pension go to his head. Perhaps there was some other reason. Alvin didn't care. He just slipped the splinter of razor blade under his tongue, got himself within striking distance, and sliced open the governor's carotid.
It was incredible really, the amount of blood. Even when Alvin was on the floor, wondering if the guards were going to carry on beating him until he was dead, he was amazed by it.
The guards didn't kill him. Not quite. But by the time he'd been transferred from the infirmary to the isolation cell, the new governor had settled in. He'd brought his own guards with him, and they were the ugliest bunch of weirdos Alvin had ever seen. Then, after a while, he started to hear the stories. Stories about cons disappearing and going crazy and committing suicide on the wire. He didn't care, but still. It was interesting. The new governor seemed to be having some sort of effect.
Then, one night, the new governor came to visit.
He wasn't wear a uniform. He hadn't shaved. He didn't even seem to have washed. He stank of stale sweat and pickled cloves and Alvin smelled him before he even entered the cell. Before he could comment, though, he caught the new governor's eye and all of a sudden he didn't want to talk. He just wanted to listen.
Afterwards, they went for a walk. The lights in the halls had all been smashed, so the only thing Alvin saw of the guards was the hungry glitter of their eyes as they padded past. He was pretty sure that removing the lights like this was against regulations, but the strangest thing was that it was so quiet. There were no whistles, no catcalls, not even any screams of men gripped by nightmares. Instead there was a heavy, liquid silence, breathless and terrified.
When they stepped outside into the moonlit sand of the exercise yard the first thing Alvin noticed was the archway. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night sunlight, gold and green as if filtered through a forest, streamed out of it. Things moved on the other side, too. Fascinating things that he couldn't quite make out.
The governor smiled when he asked Alvin if he wanted to go through, because of course Alvin did. He'd never wanted anything so much in his entire life.
Then the governor asked him if he was prepared to pay the price. He gestured to a shadow on the sand, and Alvin found that he wasn't surprised to see the Grand Master of the Brotherhood, gagged and tightly bound. When the governor gave Alvin the familiar shard of razor blade, rusty but still sharp, the Grand Master whimpered but it did him no good.
Alvin didn't hesitate. Blood in, blood out. That was the way it always had been, the way it always would be, and the way that it was. How could it be any different ?
After he had finished he stepped though the arch and into the sunlight, as gory and innocent as a new born babe.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
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