Post by Grimm on Sept 19, 2016 11:44:31 GMT -5
The people of Hangtown could only stand so much summer. When they decided it was fall, it was fall. And so it was that they went to bed in summer and woke up in autumn. A humidity-induced fog gave way to a clear sharp morning. Peaches and pears transitioned to apples and pumpkins. The crops were plowed and scattered, and hoarfrost blossomed on the fodder left in the fields. Farmhands made offerings of cider and toasted the orchards.
And on this first day of Embertide, Ruth Dillinger sat on a bench on the corner of Limestone and Ash where she cast a long shadow under the guttering flame of a street lamp. She breathed wood smoke and watched tinges of red and yellow and orange spread across the leaves. She watched her captor, Edmond Mather the Witch Hunter, walk to the crossroads of Hangtown. She watched him climb atop a stool and find his balance. She watched the crowd begin to gather.
“I came here to rid this land of a wickedness,” said Mather. “For as it is written, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Neither shall ye use enchantments, nor observe times. I came to rid you of enchanters and those that use divinations. Those that cavort with familiar spirits.”
More of her neighbors walked in from the highways and the hedges. Feet pounded cobblestones and ground leaves to dust.
“I came to rid you of Goody Dillinger and her dark ways,” said Mather, pointing to Ruth. Not one eye followed his quivering finger. They were fixed upon the man on the stool under The Tree.
“But I came to understand not only her true nature…but the fullness of this town. Wizards that peep and mutter and use curious arts for your mischief. I came to understand you are all guilty.”
“And I do not understand.”
Edmond closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he spoke again, his voice ringing out more powerful than before.
“I do not understand how such manifold sins and iniquity come to exist, and once they exist how they continue unacknowledged and unpunished. I came here anticipating a purge and I find you have laid a snare for my life. I come striving for your deliverance, but find only abominations…”
I spy something, and the color of it is red.
“…and a land of desolation. The Word cannot prevail here. You are too far gone. I come offering the breath of life only to find it returned void and without form.”
The Witch Hunter reached to the nearest limb and pulled free a coarse rope of woven hemp. He slipped the noose over his head and yanked it tight.
The crowd vibrated with a vast indifference to the man before them. It stood silent, its collective gaze blank and pitiless. Ruth saw a shock of red hair moving within it. Moving from the outer reaches to the inner circle.
“I have examined your grimoire of horrors and have added it to my catalog of shame. Goody Dillinger has shattered my mind with her revelations.” Mather’s eyes dilated. They grew unfocused. He talked above the crowd to the death’s head he saw galloping towards him. “Everything tastes like lust or gunpowder. I can now sense all manner of witches throughout all manner of lands. And, oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.”
At this, a tight grin unfurled on Ruth’s lips. All manner of witches throughout all manner of lands, he said.
Could Edmond Mather the Witch Hunter know of Brenna Gordon?
Oh, she fought against it. She strived to her utmost, unlike most who had given in to their baser instincts. It was admirable how Gordon swam against the pull of the blood-dimmed tides that had been loosed. She struggled against the crushing weight of the abyss. Towards the fading light, away from the cold and the dark. Brenna Gordon could not afford to be a house divided, not now of all times, but Ruth knew. Ruth had seen how Gordon grappled with the strain on her own subconscious, and the battle with Seromine’s cult, and how among it all she had never been closer to losing herself. And now…
A cold gust of wind lifted Mather’s long black hair and still he stared ahead. The branches taunted with their death rattle.
…now, she also had Trauma 199 and the match against the Hangtown Horror with which to contend. Ruth knew this meeting had been inevitable since Brenna Gordon had first signed her name to a PCW contract. And Ruth suspected Brenna felt the pull of the inexorable march towards that night as well. This match could have proven a respite from the poor girl’s oppression. Could have. Instead, she appeared distant. Preoccupied. You cannot afford this, thought Ruth. You cannot lose your grasp, not now. Walk into that arena with your senses disembodied and things would fall apart right quick. You cannot lose your center, not on this night. Not against him.
Born of Myth? Perhaps. But Grimm was born of Hangtown. Carved by ice. Finessed with wind, rain, and snow. And it was Grimm’s responsibility this Trauma to darken Brenna Gordon’s daylights. It was his duty to beat her as the harvesters beat the last sheaf of grain into the ground. Not out of hate, but because it was the way of nature. It was his nature. The elements did not discriminate, and Gordon of all people should recognize how bleak the outlook when one struggled against the seasons. She must maintain focus. She must mind her wits. Because, even though she saw it coming, Grimm would be coming at Brenna Gordon with the concentrated impact of an ambush.
Edmond Mather shook his head and regained his senses. He smiled.
“I have fought the good fight. I have kept the faith. And now I go to my Father’s house on my own terms, where I shall stand at the right hand of the Almighty.”
“And the devil with you.”
Mather looked up to the boughs of the Hanging Tree where his smile widened. He rocked side to side until the stool tipped over. The rope pulled taut and, as Edmond swung, croaked out a hymn to that bright and morning star. The crowd reached for just a touch of his withered hand.
Phinehas wound through the masses and stepped to the front. He took out a pocket watch and placed it in Mather’s coat and gave it a pat.
Well, that’s that.
He began whistling The Lilting Banshee as he walked away, back to All Soul’s Hollow. Back to the House of Grimm.
And on this first day of Embertide, Ruth Dillinger sat on a bench on the corner of Limestone and Ash where she cast a long shadow under the guttering flame of a street lamp. She breathed wood smoke and watched tinges of red and yellow and orange spread across the leaves. She watched her captor, Edmond Mather the Witch Hunter, walk to the crossroads of Hangtown. She watched him climb atop a stool and find his balance. She watched the crowd begin to gather.
“I came here to rid this land of a wickedness,” said Mather. “For as it is written, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Neither shall ye use enchantments, nor observe times. I came to rid you of enchanters and those that use divinations. Those that cavort with familiar spirits.”
More of her neighbors walked in from the highways and the hedges. Feet pounded cobblestones and ground leaves to dust.
“I came to rid you of Goody Dillinger and her dark ways,” said Mather, pointing to Ruth. Not one eye followed his quivering finger. They were fixed upon the man on the stool under The Tree.
“But I came to understand not only her true nature…but the fullness of this town. Wizards that peep and mutter and use curious arts for your mischief. I came to understand you are all guilty.”
“And I do not understand.”
Edmond closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he spoke again, his voice ringing out more powerful than before.
“I do not understand how such manifold sins and iniquity come to exist, and once they exist how they continue unacknowledged and unpunished. I came here anticipating a purge and I find you have laid a snare for my life. I come striving for your deliverance, but find only abominations…”
I spy something, and the color of it is red.
“…and a land of desolation. The Word cannot prevail here. You are too far gone. I come offering the breath of life only to find it returned void and without form.”
The Witch Hunter reached to the nearest limb and pulled free a coarse rope of woven hemp. He slipped the noose over his head and yanked it tight.
The crowd vibrated with a vast indifference to the man before them. It stood silent, its collective gaze blank and pitiless. Ruth saw a shock of red hair moving within it. Moving from the outer reaches to the inner circle.
“I have examined your grimoire of horrors and have added it to my catalog of shame. Goody Dillinger has shattered my mind with her revelations.” Mather’s eyes dilated. They grew unfocused. He talked above the crowd to the death’s head he saw galloping towards him. “Everything tastes like lust or gunpowder. I can now sense all manner of witches throughout all manner of lands. And, oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.”
At this, a tight grin unfurled on Ruth’s lips. All manner of witches throughout all manner of lands, he said.
Could Edmond Mather the Witch Hunter know of Brenna Gordon?
Oh, she fought against it. She strived to her utmost, unlike most who had given in to their baser instincts. It was admirable how Gordon swam against the pull of the blood-dimmed tides that had been loosed. She struggled against the crushing weight of the abyss. Towards the fading light, away from the cold and the dark. Brenna Gordon could not afford to be a house divided, not now of all times, but Ruth knew. Ruth had seen how Gordon grappled with the strain on her own subconscious, and the battle with Seromine’s cult, and how among it all she had never been closer to losing herself. And now…
A cold gust of wind lifted Mather’s long black hair and still he stared ahead. The branches taunted with their death rattle.
…now, she also had Trauma 199 and the match against the Hangtown Horror with which to contend. Ruth knew this meeting had been inevitable since Brenna Gordon had first signed her name to a PCW contract. And Ruth suspected Brenna felt the pull of the inexorable march towards that night as well. This match could have proven a respite from the poor girl’s oppression. Could have. Instead, she appeared distant. Preoccupied. You cannot afford this, thought Ruth. You cannot lose your grasp, not now. Walk into that arena with your senses disembodied and things would fall apart right quick. You cannot lose your center, not on this night. Not against him.
Born of Myth? Perhaps. But Grimm was born of Hangtown. Carved by ice. Finessed with wind, rain, and snow. And it was Grimm’s responsibility this Trauma to darken Brenna Gordon’s daylights. It was his duty to beat her as the harvesters beat the last sheaf of grain into the ground. Not out of hate, but because it was the way of nature. It was his nature. The elements did not discriminate, and Gordon of all people should recognize how bleak the outlook when one struggled against the seasons. She must maintain focus. She must mind her wits. Because, even though she saw it coming, Grimm would be coming at Brenna Gordon with the concentrated impact of an ambush.
Edmond Mather shook his head and regained his senses. He smiled.
“I have fought the good fight. I have kept the faith. And now I go to my Father’s house on my own terms, where I shall stand at the right hand of the Almighty.”
“And the devil with you.”
Mather looked up to the boughs of the Hanging Tree where his smile widened. He rocked side to side until the stool tipped over. The rope pulled taut and, as Edmond swung, croaked out a hymn to that bright and morning star. The crowd reached for just a touch of his withered hand.
Phinehas wound through the masses and stepped to the front. He took out a pocket watch and placed it in Mather’s coat and gave it a pat.
Well, that’s that.
He began whistling The Lilting Banshee as he walked away, back to All Soul’s Hollow. Back to the House of Grimm.
