Post by Grimm on Jul 15, 2019 9:50:01 GMT -5
The summons had come just as Jack had finished the last of his coffee and was picking the dregs out of his teeth. He gathered himself and collected his bearings before setting off on the task. There, in S. Duncan’s Coffeehouse, surrounded by a spectrum of the town which ranged from gentlemen to charladies. There, where news was shared, business transacted, discord sowed, and murmurs murmured. Sipping on coffee and tea, taking aim at brass spittoons scattered in the most strategic locations. Discussing various auguries and –mancies and their applications. Where only the occasional inhumanities were committed and addressed.
Jack wafted his way through pipe smoke. Stepped out on the front porch and took a deep breath of fresh air. He squinted in a simmering July haze, frowned as a drop of sweat trickled down his back. It was still humid as all get out, but the light looked different now. The solstice had passed. They had made it over the hump and were now shambling towards the harvest. Scythemen and mowers had cut and taken in the hay. Now the corn stood ready. All straight green stalks. Those same fields would be littered with foddershocks in a matter of weeks. Scarecrows loomed menacing, propped as they were in standing stones.
He was truly a Jack-of-all-trades, and as was his lot, he took whatever job came his way. Chimneysweep, lamplighter, fetcher of hither and deliverer to yon. He knew the river valley and its inhabitants well. Now, one of these days he’d go to work in one of the iron furnaces glowing up one of those deeper hollows, all wheels and forges and smoke, but until then, he’d perform his duties as requested.
Jack stepped off the porch and was on his way. He’d carried for many of the townsfolk over the years. Even Granny and Ruth Dillinger, if you’d believe it. They needed their salt, cornmeal, gun powder, ham hocks, and mandolin strings just like everyone did. And they required various roots and glassware and silver needles unlike most everyone else. But Jack fulfilled those requests all the same and collected his dues, as he would do so now.
He walked down the main thoroughfare there in Hangtown. Past the apothecary, the stationer, the cobbler. He stopped at the confectioner for a red circus lemonade, then moved on by the green grocer, the fishmonger, the sundry and dried goods store. Bad Omens Booksellers stood closed there at the edge of Hangtown proper, its proprietor otherwise occupied with his more, um, pugilistic pursuits for now. After all, he had something of a statement-making tag team match for which to prepare. And those ancient tomes and special collections weren’t going anywhere.
Jack got that far away look he was notorious for. As devoted to his jobs as he was, he was also known as something of a daydreamer. His legs carried him on as his mind wandered elsewhere.
Tag teams…
Justin Michaels was one thing. Stormm was Stormm, churning along, standing up to whatever came at him. No matter what history had shown, or what the pundits said. Dealing with the aftermath regardless of what happened. The Force of Nature hadn’t lasted this long or accomplished all that he had by taking anything for granted or overlooking anyone. He’d been a reliable –nay, solid – competitor for all these many years. This team standing opposite him, though…this was the Black Hand. And Stormm knew well what that meant.
Gerard Angelo, on the other hand, apparently did not, as he had called out Grimm again. Unbelievable! That was in line with when Rick Majors kept seeking him out in hopes that he would kill him.
And he nearly did.
Or when Johnny Matthews, God rest his nicotine-stained soul, requested that one match – you know the one -- and never recovered. Or when Seromine insisted on pestering Grimm until he nearly split his head in two. And as anyone could see, he’d become quite the odd little duck ever after.
It was quite vexing, really.
That’s not even taking into consideration how Dominator would also be in that corner.
I mean, come on.
This was the Temporal King we were talking about here. The Temporal Tyrant. The Zenith. True, there was the whole Dominator-may-be-coming-after-Grimm-and-his-title undercurrent running beneath all their interactions these days. And maybe he was just a little distracted by his search for answers to certain familial questions. But Dominator could rest easy knowing he was still able to linger in Hangtown. And with his wits about him, no less! That should be a solace for him – that was rarified air, after all – and the Black Hand would have a fine time of it if he perhaps saved the question as to ‘why’ for some other time. Because there would be plenty of time for that…
The clack of wheels on cobblestones and the rush of wind brought Jack out of his reverie. Instinct pushed him back as a man in a tri-cornered hat rolled a cart by him. A cart full of bones in various stages of elemental degradation, and a scythe, and the barrel of a small cannon. A tattered black flag fluttered at the front. Jack muttered an apology but the man didn’t reply or so much as break his stride. Jack allowed him to pass before continuing to the spot where the rail line curved off to the northwest. A train sat there, black and ominous, hissing smoke and embers. That was where Jack walked beyond the town limits. On by farms, across a bridge, to where the road turned to dirt and gravel, and where cold dead cinders had been spread to tamp down the dust. Banks of clouds rolled overhead, and Jack stepped into All Souls Hollow. The atmosphere shifted as he did so.
He walked there in the wilderness where there was no kinship. No understanding. No mercy. Only the overwhelming indifference of nature. Jack heard a whippoorwill whip-poor-will somewhere nearby, up there where the light peeked through the canopy. That wasn’t normal. And that couldn’t mean anything good. So Jack moved off the road and climbed down into a dry creek bed where he picked his way among the stones, the sediments, the ghosts. Down there in the shade of the overgrowth where the air was still but at least there could be found respite from the sun.
Jack whistled a jaunty tune of his own composing. He climbed over a fallen poplar. He waved away no-see-ums and flicked other critters off his forearms. Followed the turns in the creek. Tried to ignore the chittering in those goat-haunted hills. Then heard the buzzing from honeycombed war hives and knew he’d arrived. Jack climbed out of the creek bed and took the final turn in the road. There the house stood up the slope. Jack recognized that excited, queasy feeling when something was about to happen, as he looked up at such a fascinating and terrible place.
Speaking of fascinating and terrible…there in the shade of the porch, under the portico, stood the man himself. What was it they called him out there? The Hangtown Horror. The Lord of Misrule. The Crimson Demon. The Backwoods Brawler. In here he had other names. For other reasons.
But be it out there or in here, he still answered to Phinehas Dillinger. And Jack found himself waiting before the man. Looking up into eyes as cold as the view into a glacial crevasse. Framed by a lichen beard stained with red ochre. It was what Grimm’s opponents had seen and would see, event after event. If Jack ever saw it again, it would be too soon.
This fiend of the waning year. A chair rocked empty in the corner. Phinehas held out a stack of documents. Sheets of pulped paper, woven fiber, the finest vellum. It took two hands to manage it all.
“Deliver these to Dominic Atkinson. I reckon you can find him easily enough. He’s a real big fellow.”
Jack took the stack and shifted his grip so as to never, ever, drop any of it. God help him if he did. With a nod of his head, Jack said, “Yes, sir,” and scurried back down the hollow. He knew how to find Mr. Atkinson, sure enough. You couldn’t miss him.
Phinehas watched the messenger turn the corner and disappear. He pulled open the screen door and withdrew into the cool of the house, where, like Jack had considered earlier, he made himself ready.
Jack wafted his way through pipe smoke. Stepped out on the front porch and took a deep breath of fresh air. He squinted in a simmering July haze, frowned as a drop of sweat trickled down his back. It was still humid as all get out, but the light looked different now. The solstice had passed. They had made it over the hump and were now shambling towards the harvest. Scythemen and mowers had cut and taken in the hay. Now the corn stood ready. All straight green stalks. Those same fields would be littered with foddershocks in a matter of weeks. Scarecrows loomed menacing, propped as they were in standing stones.
He was truly a Jack-of-all-trades, and as was his lot, he took whatever job came his way. Chimneysweep, lamplighter, fetcher of hither and deliverer to yon. He knew the river valley and its inhabitants well. Now, one of these days he’d go to work in one of the iron furnaces glowing up one of those deeper hollows, all wheels and forges and smoke, but until then, he’d perform his duties as requested.
Jack stepped off the porch and was on his way. He’d carried for many of the townsfolk over the years. Even Granny and Ruth Dillinger, if you’d believe it. They needed their salt, cornmeal, gun powder, ham hocks, and mandolin strings just like everyone did. And they required various roots and glassware and silver needles unlike most everyone else. But Jack fulfilled those requests all the same and collected his dues, as he would do so now.
He walked down the main thoroughfare there in Hangtown. Past the apothecary, the stationer, the cobbler. He stopped at the confectioner for a red circus lemonade, then moved on by the green grocer, the fishmonger, the sundry and dried goods store. Bad Omens Booksellers stood closed there at the edge of Hangtown proper, its proprietor otherwise occupied with his more, um, pugilistic pursuits for now. After all, he had something of a statement-making tag team match for which to prepare. And those ancient tomes and special collections weren’t going anywhere.
Jack got that far away look he was notorious for. As devoted to his jobs as he was, he was also known as something of a daydreamer. His legs carried him on as his mind wandered elsewhere.
Tag teams…
Justin Michaels was one thing. Stormm was Stormm, churning along, standing up to whatever came at him. No matter what history had shown, or what the pundits said. Dealing with the aftermath regardless of what happened. The Force of Nature hadn’t lasted this long or accomplished all that he had by taking anything for granted or overlooking anyone. He’d been a reliable –nay, solid – competitor for all these many years. This team standing opposite him, though…this was the Black Hand. And Stormm knew well what that meant.
Gerard Angelo, on the other hand, apparently did not, as he had called out Grimm again. Unbelievable! That was in line with when Rick Majors kept seeking him out in hopes that he would kill him.
And he nearly did.
Or when Johnny Matthews, God rest his nicotine-stained soul, requested that one match – you know the one -- and never recovered. Or when Seromine insisted on pestering Grimm until he nearly split his head in two. And as anyone could see, he’d become quite the odd little duck ever after.
It was quite vexing, really.
That’s not even taking into consideration how Dominator would also be in that corner.
I mean, come on.
This was the Temporal King we were talking about here. The Temporal Tyrant. The Zenith. True, there was the whole Dominator-may-be-coming-after-Grimm-and-his-title undercurrent running beneath all their interactions these days. And maybe he was just a little distracted by his search for answers to certain familial questions. But Dominator could rest easy knowing he was still able to linger in Hangtown. And with his wits about him, no less! That should be a solace for him – that was rarified air, after all – and the Black Hand would have a fine time of it if he perhaps saved the question as to ‘why’ for some other time. Because there would be plenty of time for that…
The clack of wheels on cobblestones and the rush of wind brought Jack out of his reverie. Instinct pushed him back as a man in a tri-cornered hat rolled a cart by him. A cart full of bones in various stages of elemental degradation, and a scythe, and the barrel of a small cannon. A tattered black flag fluttered at the front. Jack muttered an apology but the man didn’t reply or so much as break his stride. Jack allowed him to pass before continuing to the spot where the rail line curved off to the northwest. A train sat there, black and ominous, hissing smoke and embers. That was where Jack walked beyond the town limits. On by farms, across a bridge, to where the road turned to dirt and gravel, and where cold dead cinders had been spread to tamp down the dust. Banks of clouds rolled overhead, and Jack stepped into All Souls Hollow. The atmosphere shifted as he did so.
He walked there in the wilderness where there was no kinship. No understanding. No mercy. Only the overwhelming indifference of nature. Jack heard a whippoorwill whip-poor-will somewhere nearby, up there where the light peeked through the canopy. That wasn’t normal. And that couldn’t mean anything good. So Jack moved off the road and climbed down into a dry creek bed where he picked his way among the stones, the sediments, the ghosts. Down there in the shade of the overgrowth where the air was still but at least there could be found respite from the sun.
Jack whistled a jaunty tune of his own composing. He climbed over a fallen poplar. He waved away no-see-ums and flicked other critters off his forearms. Followed the turns in the creek. Tried to ignore the chittering in those goat-haunted hills. Then heard the buzzing from honeycombed war hives and knew he’d arrived. Jack climbed out of the creek bed and took the final turn in the road. There the house stood up the slope. Jack recognized that excited, queasy feeling when something was about to happen, as he looked up at such a fascinating and terrible place.
Speaking of fascinating and terrible…there in the shade of the porch, under the portico, stood the man himself. What was it they called him out there? The Hangtown Horror. The Lord of Misrule. The Crimson Demon. The Backwoods Brawler. In here he had other names. For other reasons.
But be it out there or in here, he still answered to Phinehas Dillinger. And Jack found himself waiting before the man. Looking up into eyes as cold as the view into a glacial crevasse. Framed by a lichen beard stained with red ochre. It was what Grimm’s opponents had seen and would see, event after event. If Jack ever saw it again, it would be too soon.
This fiend of the waning year. A chair rocked empty in the corner. Phinehas held out a stack of documents. Sheets of pulped paper, woven fiber, the finest vellum. It took two hands to manage it all.
“Deliver these to Dominic Atkinson. I reckon you can find him easily enough. He’s a real big fellow.”
Jack took the stack and shifted his grip so as to never, ever, drop any of it. God help him if he did. With a nod of his head, Jack said, “Yes, sir,” and scurried back down the hollow. He knew how to find Mr. Atkinson, sure enough. You couldn’t miss him.
Phinehas watched the messenger turn the corner and disappear. He pulled open the screen door and withdrew into the cool of the house, where, like Jack had considered earlier, he made himself ready.
