Post by Grimm on Mar 23, 2020 11:54:46 GMT -5
Spring equinox, late evening, and Phinehas worked to finish before the waning light became too much strain on the eyes.
Those pale blue eyes.
A frozen river, solid enough to drive a carriage and four horses across. Water running straight and true deep down under the ice. Straight and true, no matter the course.
Much had happened. Much needed recording. Despite whispers and stories to the contrary, the Book had, in fact, been completed by hand. All those ages, centuries, generations. Collected and written and remembered. The Black Hand preferred it that way. The Book insisted on it.
Phinehas scrawled in rust and blood and ash. Taking care not to smear as his left hand drug behind the pen.
Dominic James Atkinson, or Dominic James Aurelian, if you preferred. A mountain of a man, the Dominator, and recently assimilated member of the Black Hand (relatively speaking, of course). But…expunged, for now. Through no fault of his own. Or at least, not entirely his fault. How could one be expected to foresee the secrets, the vendettas, the electro-magnetic pulse bombs that had consumed his days? The puppetry of Denzel Aurelian, Dolores Aurelian, Horatio Mortimer. The abomination that was Amy Trenton-Metallinos in her living dead state. Harley Weiss and his disintegration.
Geniuses, manipulators, zeniths, none of which was of any concern to Hangtown. All answered to the laws of the land, especially when that land was this land. There was no sneaking in. No slipping away undetected. The pages of this Book would testify to that. It could have been excruciatingly unpleasant. It could have resembled the fever dreams of those Brothers, Jacob and Wilhelm. But instead, in the twinkling of an eye, in a mere moment, at the last trumpet, the lot of them found themselves elsewhere. Not a nightmare, just…not right.
Phinehas paused to message his hand and stretch his fingers. He wished Dominic some manner of peace in all of this.
But still the Black Hand insisted. And Grimm remained.
What the PCW referred to as the Boogeyman, the Hangtown Horror, was merely a universal precondition, an example of an everlasting rule: that all members of the federation were vulnerable to being randomly booked, and thereby randomly pummeled, by the actions of one fellow man.
“Impossible,” some say. “Everyone knows Grimm’s better days are long past.”
“Yes, everyone knows that, except all those beaten and broken at his hands.”
They (you know who you are) continued to put him to the proof. Though they had seen his work, they did not regard his ways. David Hunter and Gerard Angelo may be a team at the moment, but Cory Steel and Grimm had years of experience, both as the fiercest of foes and staunchest of allies. Cobbling together an official team on paper does not surpass that, even if the team name included fancy characters. Brenna Gordon and Grimm proved that just one week ago. Moving forward from that most recent of defeats, would Hunter and Angelo learn from their mistakes? Make corrections? Take flaws and personal failures to heart?
We shall see, but holding one’s breath was not advised.
Phinehas turned the page and wrote in an ink of pulverized seashell, silt dredged from an inlet, cold sand from the deepest layer of dune.
Brenna Gordon.
Victory at Trauma 267 aside, she’d had an unpleasant surprise at what had been assumed would be a simple graveside service. Bone – ash – salt – seawater. Waves of such overwhelmed her. It would be some time before the taste of brine left her mouth. Until she no longer picked bits of kelp from her teeth.
Even in death, her mother would not let her go.
And, even so, Born of Myth and the Crimson Demon had succeeded despite the promises of certain opponents.
“…reasserting why Pandemonium will rule.”
“Gerry and I have a tag match to win.”
You didn’t…you haven’t…and you won’t.
Would that also be the case at Trauma 268? Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter the outcome, one must always remember your time here always was and will always remain an emergency. A truly inescapable underlying condition. And yet, as one panicked at the thought, one should keep in mind that panic suggested a short-term, albeit dangerous, condition from which one may eventually reach safety. But there could never be safety.
Now, granted, Cory Steel (PCW North American Champion!) and his son had been measured and weighed and found wanting by the Hangtown Horror. But (!) that would be placed on hold for one night. Grimm had enough decency to permit that much, at least. Once they had dealt with the matter of Pandemonium they could resume their…squabble, in all its inevitably gruesome glory.
Phinehas returned to the book. He turned another page and dipped his pen in diesel fuel, gunpowder, and yet more blood. A prodigal son had returned, along with his own offspring, and…oh.
Hmm.
He paused, pen hanging in midair, drip-drip-dripping on the blank spaces. A Rorschach pattern that would, if considered fully, shatter your mind.
That was interesting.
Phinehas finished with simple gestures of line and ink. Closing it gently, he returned the Book to its place behind the counter. Beneath the stack of charts and maps and yellowed flintlock long rifle papers. He stood, stretched his shoulders and back, and walked to the window as he had a thousand times before. Looked out over the cobblestones and gas streetlamps. To the bonfires and cobwebs. Phinehas listened to briers and creeks and honeybees whisper.
Those pale blue eyes.
A frozen river, solid enough to drive a carriage and four horses across. Water running straight and true deep down under the ice. Straight and true, no matter the course.
Much had happened. Much needed recording. Despite whispers and stories to the contrary, the Book had, in fact, been completed by hand. All those ages, centuries, generations. Collected and written and remembered. The Black Hand preferred it that way. The Book insisted on it.
Phinehas scrawled in rust and blood and ash. Taking care not to smear as his left hand drug behind the pen.
Dominic James Atkinson, or Dominic James Aurelian, if you preferred. A mountain of a man, the Dominator, and recently assimilated member of the Black Hand (relatively speaking, of course). But…expunged, for now. Through no fault of his own. Or at least, not entirely his fault. How could one be expected to foresee the secrets, the vendettas, the electro-magnetic pulse bombs that had consumed his days? The puppetry of Denzel Aurelian, Dolores Aurelian, Horatio Mortimer. The abomination that was Amy Trenton-Metallinos in her living dead state. Harley Weiss and his disintegration.
Geniuses, manipulators, zeniths, none of which was of any concern to Hangtown. All answered to the laws of the land, especially when that land was this land. There was no sneaking in. No slipping away undetected. The pages of this Book would testify to that. It could have been excruciatingly unpleasant. It could have resembled the fever dreams of those Brothers, Jacob and Wilhelm. But instead, in the twinkling of an eye, in a mere moment, at the last trumpet, the lot of them found themselves elsewhere. Not a nightmare, just…not right.
Phinehas paused to message his hand and stretch his fingers. He wished Dominic some manner of peace in all of this.
But still the Black Hand insisted. And Grimm remained.
What the PCW referred to as the Boogeyman, the Hangtown Horror, was merely a universal precondition, an example of an everlasting rule: that all members of the federation were vulnerable to being randomly booked, and thereby randomly pummeled, by the actions of one fellow man.
“Impossible,” some say. “Everyone knows Grimm’s better days are long past.”
“Yes, everyone knows that, except all those beaten and broken at his hands.”
They (you know who you are) continued to put him to the proof. Though they had seen his work, they did not regard his ways. David Hunter and Gerard Angelo may be a team at the moment, but Cory Steel and Grimm had years of experience, both as the fiercest of foes and staunchest of allies. Cobbling together an official team on paper does not surpass that, even if the team name included fancy characters. Brenna Gordon and Grimm proved that just one week ago. Moving forward from that most recent of defeats, would Hunter and Angelo learn from their mistakes? Make corrections? Take flaws and personal failures to heart?
We shall see, but holding one’s breath was not advised.
Phinehas turned the page and wrote in an ink of pulverized seashell, silt dredged from an inlet, cold sand from the deepest layer of dune.
Brenna Gordon.
Victory at Trauma 267 aside, she’d had an unpleasant surprise at what had been assumed would be a simple graveside service. Bone – ash – salt – seawater. Waves of such overwhelmed her. It would be some time before the taste of brine left her mouth. Until she no longer picked bits of kelp from her teeth.
Even in death, her mother would not let her go.
And, even so, Born of Myth and the Crimson Demon had succeeded despite the promises of certain opponents.
“…reasserting why Pandemonium will rule.”
“Gerry and I have a tag match to win.”
You didn’t…you haven’t…and you won’t.
Would that also be the case at Trauma 268? Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter the outcome, one must always remember your time here always was and will always remain an emergency. A truly inescapable underlying condition. And yet, as one panicked at the thought, one should keep in mind that panic suggested a short-term, albeit dangerous, condition from which one may eventually reach safety. But there could never be safety.
Now, granted, Cory Steel (PCW North American Champion!) and his son had been measured and weighed and found wanting by the Hangtown Horror. But (!) that would be placed on hold for one night. Grimm had enough decency to permit that much, at least. Once they had dealt with the matter of Pandemonium they could resume their…squabble, in all its inevitably gruesome glory.
Phinehas returned to the book. He turned another page and dipped his pen in diesel fuel, gunpowder, and yet more blood. A prodigal son had returned, along with his own offspring, and…oh.
Hmm.
He paused, pen hanging in midair, drip-drip-dripping on the blank spaces. A Rorschach pattern that would, if considered fully, shatter your mind.
That was interesting.
Phinehas finished with simple gestures of line and ink. Closing it gently, he returned the Book to its place behind the counter. Beneath the stack of charts and maps and yellowed flintlock long rifle papers. He stood, stretched his shoulders and back, and walked to the window as he had a thousand times before. Looked out over the cobblestones and gas streetlamps. To the bonfires and cobwebs. Phinehas listened to briers and creeks and honeybees whisper.
