Post by Grimm on Jul 29, 2015 14:06:21 GMT -5
Not everyone was aware of the Black Hand, and not everyone who was aware appreciated their works. Some things were just understood, though, and Hangtown, as a rule, could not gaze upon the Book of the Black Hand. Rumors abounded as to explain the reasoning behind such an unwritten law. Merely cracking open the cover would suck you into an abyss. Curses and maledictions placed upon the fibers in the paper itself would absorb your soul. A cursory glance at the contents could drive you mad. Also, there was the constant, underlying fear that the Dillinger Brothers would flay you in the town square for simply looking at something of theirs without their permission. Whatever the truth, it still stood.
And so the lamplighters had quickly made their rounds before skedaddling back to the shanty that served as their guild. They knew. Under the pale yellow flicker of the gas lights, Phinehas Dillinger, he of the Ginger Brotherhood and blue eyes forged deep within the Arctic, walked down Main Street. He carried the Book in a leather-gloved left hand, and in the other he dragged a Hangtown Hardware Grimm Signature Edition Shovel (meaning, it was mottled with rust and splinters). Shutters were drawn and nothing but silhouettes wafted past windows as he moved along. No sound but the scrape of a shovel blade as it sparked along the cobbles. That, and a few orphan leaves skittering along as portents.
Phinehas passed what had once been the Tub of Blood Saloon and now served as a stationary shop. He slowed as he approached a filthy ragamuffin, bristling with slack-jawed enthusiasm, splashing in a puddle with a stick. A dark shape in swirling skirts rushed out, grabbed the little boy beneath the arms, and disappeared back into the shadows. Phinehas heard her whispered warnings even as they melted away. Warnings of all the terrible things the Lord of Misrule would do to a lad who dared look upon him and his Book, and the grin of exceeding great joy he would flash as he did them.
Bury the poor little tyke alive, perhaps?
Phinehas did have quite a bit of shoveling experience. And he had a few ideas for this shovel right here other than just filling in a shallow grave.
I hope they inspire you.
Buried Alive. No titles up for grabs. Not even a contendership on the line. And yet it would still be an affront to God. A show of violence so severe it would detract from the sum of human knowledge. No hope of anything but another mark in the win column. Other than the wish for that victory, Grimm would not pretend to know what Loki thought about any of this. He had an idea what he wanted, but given his recent history in the federation you would have to ask him. A history somewhat shocking, somewhat controversial, but something couldn’t be considered gossip if it was a matter of public record, right? Family tragedies. Substance abuse. The abandonment of Gem and Melissa during their formative training. A general malaise in regards to attendance.
Phinehas kept walking. He followed traces of lightning bugs leading to the city limits, as they were.
Of course Loki wanted a victory. At this point he needed one. Continuing on this path of looking only for himself, he would find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. That’s a long list, but it wasn’t Grimm’s. It would be one of Loki’s making were he not careful. Grimm did not understand Loki’s seeming willingness to negate his one-time greatness. Yes, Grimm would admit he was great. Once. There was no arguing that. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Maybe what Loki, what Brandon, required was a little…inspiration.
Some saw Grimm’s recent actions as ruthless and often pointless cruelty. Perhaps Loki saw the poundings as purification.
If you’re looking for a beating, you’ve come to the right place.
The assaults were Grimm’s testimony against him. And he affirmed being Buried Alive would be his final penance. It could serve as a final benediction and absolve him of his transgressions.
Grimm’s word was sufficient.
Beyond that, it was up to Brandon. He can cast his bread upon the waters and hope for the best. Outside of what would be stomach-churning retribution, Phinehas, for one, had washed his hands of it.
The cobblestone walk continued outside of Hangtown and wound its way across a rolling moonlit field. Phinehas followed it along its crooked way until it deposited him at the base of a set of crooked stairs. He tilted his head, looking up at the crooked house standing scarecrow-sentry alone in the dark. Tall and skinny, it rose as if sprouted from the earth. Phinehas wondered what lay hidden, up there, in the attic. Weather vanes, lightning rods, smatterings of other ironmongery jutted up from the many angles of the roof. He propped the shovel by the crooked door and grasped the brass doorknob, but paused. He turned and took in one last glimpse of his surroundings. Dark hills spread out in all directions, the occasional rock outcrop, the faint line of trees encircling Hangtown at a distance. Without a knock, without a hue or cry, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Phinehas stood in one monstrosity of a room. Sconces of flickering candles lined the walls, the flames reflecting off aged silver and polished stone. Iron chandeliers hung from timbers, and they too dripped wax as candles guttered overhead. Across the entire breadth of the room, lanterns sat on table after table, each one illuminating a figure bent over in a chair. Each figure held a fountain pen, and the sound of metal nib scribbling on paper was paired with the occasional clink of a pen being dipped in one of hundreds of ink wells. They were all shadows of slightly tilted heads and jotting fingers, and no one looked up from their work to the stranger in their midst. The figures were all dressed in black and each wore a simple silver ring on their writing hand.
Phinehas breathed in a room full of brittle yellowed papers. He nearly choked on binding glue disintegrating under the ages. Another figure, appearing as all the rest, sidled up to him.
“Welcome to the Black Chamber, Mr. Dillinger.”
The man turned and Phinehas followed his guide down the center aisle with row upon row of tables and pens and hoods spread out on both sides. His boot-clad feet echoed off the flagstones.
“As you may or may not have been made aware, we are the record keepers of the Black Hand. We record everything that has happened…”
The man motioned to a figure in the process of copying what looked to be an arcane illuminated manuscript, centuries old and slowly turning to dust. They continued down the aisle.
“…what is taking place as I stand before you now…”
He swept his hand over another figure. This one had no tome beside him. Instead, he scribbled furiously on a thick sheet of paper. After reaching the bottom, he turned it over beside him and continued at the top of the next sheet in an immense pile. The figure did not pause. He did not look up. He just wrote.
“…and what shall be.”
With that, Phinehas’s guide stopped beside yet another person indistinguishable from the others, and carefully slid the piece of parchment out from under its pen. The figure immediately stopped writing but remained bent over, waiting to resume its work. The guide handed the paper to Phinehas and took a step back. Grimm’s pale blue eyes flickered over the writing for a few seconds. Expressionless, he looked up at the guide.
“So this is what may happen?”
“No, this is what will happen.”
“And there’s nothing anyone can do that will change this? No tiny seemingly insignificant event or choice that you haven’t taken into account?”
The guide grinned. He pointed at the sheet in Phinehas’s hands.
“As you read, we only deal in outcomes. Ultimatums. The ends are much more important to us than the means. The idea of the Black Chamber recording every single little detail that leads to a certain conclusion is ludicrous. But the conclusions themselves are inevitable.”
Grimm’s eyes narrowed.
“We don’t determine how the world’s events play out, Mr. Dilllinger. We merely record them.”
The guide took the sheet of paper and handed it back to the person at the table, who set back to work straight away. He put his hand on Phinehas’s shoulder and gently turned him, then began the march towards the door. Phinehas couldn’t help but ask.
“Why did you call me here?"
Before Grimm could react, the guide pulled the Book of the Black Hand from Phinehas’s grasp and held it up. He tapped the cover with an ink-smudged finger.
“This needs to be updated, and although you’ve done an admirable job recently, we need it back as I am to take responsibility for it now. There are certain…events forthcoming that you are not to be privy to, and in order for this to continue as the Black Hand’s Preferred Text, I must insist on expanding the record myself. I’m sure you understand. And if you don’t, you will soon enough.”
And with that, before he could verbalize even a hint of a protest, Phinehas Dillinger, the Grimm himself, was back outside at the bottom of the crooked steps, looking up at a dark house in the middle of an otherwise empty field.
He did not leave for some time. A rim of orange and purple lit the eastern hills as morning broke. As he made, finally, to leave, a crow settled on what was left of a split rail fence. Man and rook locked eyes. The crow crooked its head. Phinehas did the same.
Thought. Memory.
The crow gave its report of Loki’s roaming to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it. Grimm nodded and the black bird lit off for other skies.
A leaf fell and the people of Hangtown flinched, hearing it as the final page of the Book turning over, only to be followed by the slamming shut of the cover. They had only to wait now.
And so the lamplighters had quickly made their rounds before skedaddling back to the shanty that served as their guild. They knew. Under the pale yellow flicker of the gas lights, Phinehas Dillinger, he of the Ginger Brotherhood and blue eyes forged deep within the Arctic, walked down Main Street. He carried the Book in a leather-gloved left hand, and in the other he dragged a Hangtown Hardware Grimm Signature Edition Shovel (meaning, it was mottled with rust and splinters). Shutters were drawn and nothing but silhouettes wafted past windows as he moved along. No sound but the scrape of a shovel blade as it sparked along the cobbles. That, and a few orphan leaves skittering along as portents.
Phinehas passed what had once been the Tub of Blood Saloon and now served as a stationary shop. He slowed as he approached a filthy ragamuffin, bristling with slack-jawed enthusiasm, splashing in a puddle with a stick. A dark shape in swirling skirts rushed out, grabbed the little boy beneath the arms, and disappeared back into the shadows. Phinehas heard her whispered warnings even as they melted away. Warnings of all the terrible things the Lord of Misrule would do to a lad who dared look upon him and his Book, and the grin of exceeding great joy he would flash as he did them.
Bury the poor little tyke alive, perhaps?
Phinehas did have quite a bit of shoveling experience. And he had a few ideas for this shovel right here other than just filling in a shallow grave.
I hope they inspire you.
Buried Alive. No titles up for grabs. Not even a contendership on the line. And yet it would still be an affront to God. A show of violence so severe it would detract from the sum of human knowledge. No hope of anything but another mark in the win column. Other than the wish for that victory, Grimm would not pretend to know what Loki thought about any of this. He had an idea what he wanted, but given his recent history in the federation you would have to ask him. A history somewhat shocking, somewhat controversial, but something couldn’t be considered gossip if it was a matter of public record, right? Family tragedies. Substance abuse. The abandonment of Gem and Melissa during their formative training. A general malaise in regards to attendance.
Phinehas kept walking. He followed traces of lightning bugs leading to the city limits, as they were.
Of course Loki wanted a victory. At this point he needed one. Continuing on this path of looking only for himself, he would find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. That’s a long list, but it wasn’t Grimm’s. It would be one of Loki’s making were he not careful. Grimm did not understand Loki’s seeming willingness to negate his one-time greatness. Yes, Grimm would admit he was great. Once. There was no arguing that. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Maybe what Loki, what Brandon, required was a little…inspiration.
Some saw Grimm’s recent actions as ruthless and often pointless cruelty. Perhaps Loki saw the poundings as purification.
If you’re looking for a beating, you’ve come to the right place.
The assaults were Grimm’s testimony against him. And he affirmed being Buried Alive would be his final penance. It could serve as a final benediction and absolve him of his transgressions.
Grimm’s word was sufficient.
Beyond that, it was up to Brandon. He can cast his bread upon the waters and hope for the best. Outside of what would be stomach-churning retribution, Phinehas, for one, had washed his hands of it.
The cobblestone walk continued outside of Hangtown and wound its way across a rolling moonlit field. Phinehas followed it along its crooked way until it deposited him at the base of a set of crooked stairs. He tilted his head, looking up at the crooked house standing scarecrow-sentry alone in the dark. Tall and skinny, it rose as if sprouted from the earth. Phinehas wondered what lay hidden, up there, in the attic. Weather vanes, lightning rods, smatterings of other ironmongery jutted up from the many angles of the roof. He propped the shovel by the crooked door and grasped the brass doorknob, but paused. He turned and took in one last glimpse of his surroundings. Dark hills spread out in all directions, the occasional rock outcrop, the faint line of trees encircling Hangtown at a distance. Without a knock, without a hue or cry, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Phinehas stood in one monstrosity of a room. Sconces of flickering candles lined the walls, the flames reflecting off aged silver and polished stone. Iron chandeliers hung from timbers, and they too dripped wax as candles guttered overhead. Across the entire breadth of the room, lanterns sat on table after table, each one illuminating a figure bent over in a chair. Each figure held a fountain pen, and the sound of metal nib scribbling on paper was paired with the occasional clink of a pen being dipped in one of hundreds of ink wells. They were all shadows of slightly tilted heads and jotting fingers, and no one looked up from their work to the stranger in their midst. The figures were all dressed in black and each wore a simple silver ring on their writing hand.
Phinehas breathed in a room full of brittle yellowed papers. He nearly choked on binding glue disintegrating under the ages. Another figure, appearing as all the rest, sidled up to him.
“Welcome to the Black Chamber, Mr. Dillinger.”
The man turned and Phinehas followed his guide down the center aisle with row upon row of tables and pens and hoods spread out on both sides. His boot-clad feet echoed off the flagstones.
“As you may or may not have been made aware, we are the record keepers of the Black Hand. We record everything that has happened…”
The man motioned to a figure in the process of copying what looked to be an arcane illuminated manuscript, centuries old and slowly turning to dust. They continued down the aisle.
“…what is taking place as I stand before you now…”
He swept his hand over another figure. This one had no tome beside him. Instead, he scribbled furiously on a thick sheet of paper. After reaching the bottom, he turned it over beside him and continued at the top of the next sheet in an immense pile. The figure did not pause. He did not look up. He just wrote.
“…and what shall be.”
With that, Phinehas’s guide stopped beside yet another person indistinguishable from the others, and carefully slid the piece of parchment out from under its pen. The figure immediately stopped writing but remained bent over, waiting to resume its work. The guide handed the paper to Phinehas and took a step back. Grimm’s pale blue eyes flickered over the writing for a few seconds. Expressionless, he looked up at the guide.
“So this is what may happen?”
“No, this is what will happen.”
“And there’s nothing anyone can do that will change this? No tiny seemingly insignificant event or choice that you haven’t taken into account?”
The guide grinned. He pointed at the sheet in Phinehas’s hands.
“As you read, we only deal in outcomes. Ultimatums. The ends are much more important to us than the means. The idea of the Black Chamber recording every single little detail that leads to a certain conclusion is ludicrous. But the conclusions themselves are inevitable.”
Grimm’s eyes narrowed.
“We don’t determine how the world’s events play out, Mr. Dilllinger. We merely record them.”
The guide took the sheet of paper and handed it back to the person at the table, who set back to work straight away. He put his hand on Phinehas’s shoulder and gently turned him, then began the march towards the door. Phinehas couldn’t help but ask.
“Why did you call me here?"
Before Grimm could react, the guide pulled the Book of the Black Hand from Phinehas’s grasp and held it up. He tapped the cover with an ink-smudged finger.
“This needs to be updated, and although you’ve done an admirable job recently, we need it back as I am to take responsibility for it now. There are certain…events forthcoming that you are not to be privy to, and in order for this to continue as the Black Hand’s Preferred Text, I must insist on expanding the record myself. I’m sure you understand. And if you don’t, you will soon enough.”
And with that, before he could verbalize even a hint of a protest, Phinehas Dillinger, the Grimm himself, was back outside at the bottom of the crooked steps, looking up at a dark house in the middle of an otherwise empty field.
He did not leave for some time. A rim of orange and purple lit the eastern hills as morning broke. As he made, finally, to leave, a crow settled on what was left of a split rail fence. Man and rook locked eyes. The crow crooked its head. Phinehas did the same.
Thought. Memory.
The crow gave its report of Loki’s roaming to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it. Grimm nodded and the black bird lit off for other skies.
A leaf fell and the people of Hangtown flinched, hearing it as the final page of the Book turning over, only to be followed by the slamming shut of the cover. They had only to wait now.
