Post by Grimm on Dec 1, 2006 23:50:49 GMT -5
“Ready? One, two, three…”
Toes tapped in time. Fingers flashed. Guitars and mandolins were plucked and strummed, fiddles sawed nearly in half, the upright bass rumbled in your gut. A few brave souls (or perchance a little under the influence) pushed back from their tables and demonstrated their best jig impressions. Those not dancing sang along, those not singing clapped and stomped. It was the end of another work week and the beginning of the Christmas season, and by golly they were going to celebrate both. It was a small pub a fair piece away from the more traveled highways and byways, but tonight it was wall to wall people. They admired the wreaths on the door and windows, the holly and juniper woven into the garland strung from rafters and antique woodwork, the sprig of mistletoe hanging from a doorframe. A well-tended fire crackled in a huge stone fireplace along one wall. There was nary a malicious thought among the revelers and everyone was a friend on this night. The sight would have made Charles Dickens himself proud.
As the musicians ended one ancient carol to the applause and huzzahs of those in attendance, and as they immediately leapt into another, a wild-haired man with ice-blue eyes made his way into the tavern. Cold and brisk as it was outside, he was immediately warmed by not only the fire but the general feelings of goodwill and charity among the crowd. If only he shared those sentiments. He couldn’t help but grin at the scene playing out before him and the occasional slap on the back, but as he whipped off his black toboggan and sunk into a chair by the hearth, he couldn’t help but dwell on the conflict within him. Here he was, among the jolliest folks he had come into contact with in a good long while, and what would probably be the last friendly faces he would be around for at least a fortnight, and instead of taking advantage of the opportunity he stewed. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but Phinehas Grimm could be unpleasant in a scene straight out of a Currier and Ives print. He couldn’t let it go. Some things were just too much of a burden to ignore. Even during such Yuletide carousing.
Grimm knew it was almost time for the annual PCW holiday break, but he couldn’t enjoy the prospect of time away from the usual madness because of the one thing that stood in its way: Last Call. The final pay per view of the year loomed on the horizon and Phinehas was already counting down the days until it was over. He was ready for a well-deserved rest, and he was also looking forward to showing Non Compos Mentis what true cruelty was. A few stints in prison and the occasional electroshock treatment session at the asylum might have seemed highly unpleasant at the time, but he had no idea…
Harsh thoughts for the most wonderful time of the year (according to Johnny Mathis), yes, but they were what kept Grimm up nights. Other than a tag team match or two, he had yet to step into a ring with his upcoming opponent. Apparently, though, that would not stop Non Compos Mentis from venting some deep-seated frustrations in the direction of the Abomination of Desolation. As far as he could remember he had not slighted NCM in any way, but that would not stop him from blaming Grimm for the world’s problems. Maybe it was true resentment for having to wait so long for a chance at the PCW world championship…maybe it was the realization that he had given up his rights to the North American title just for the privilege of being beaten senseless in front of what was sure to be an enormous pay per view crowd….whatever the reason, NCM was planning on taking it out on Grimm. And Grimm would be more than happy to oblige him the opportunity. Sadly, though, Non Compos Mentis’ illusions of grandeur would be of little use while he was being dropped repeatedly on his head. Oh, the things Grimm would do to him…
Gristle pulverized to pulp, snapped tendons…Grimm leaned back and closed his eyes. His mouth watered. Despite the noise, a combination of warmth in the small pub and his own weariness led to the inevitable dozing off. A few involuntary twitches later, he was out. But only for a few seconds. He snapped to attention and found himself in a room of stone. He shivered as the temperature dropped. A table beckoned him to the center of the room, where two lonely candles lit his steps. One green, one red, both dripping wax on dull brass candelabras. He drew near and saw a book splayed on the table. An imprint of a hand-lettered compass rose decorated the upper right corner of the page on the right. Flowing black script in fading ink filled the empty spaces of the paper. Dark splotches mottled the tome. It smelled of the grave. Before he could get a chance to read, though, the pages began to quiver, then flip at a dizzying pace. He could not make out the words, but it was clear that every square inch had been filled with writing. The cover slammed shut with a bang that echoed and hurt his ears. The same compass, form, size, and all, was embossed dead center on the front. The echo dissipated quickly in the dead stone.
A cold wind began to eddy about the room. Damp, it left him feeling clammy and alone. He took a deep breath and caught a whiff of the sea. He bent down, squinted, stared, saw lichens and barnacles clinging to both the cracked leather binding and the salt-stained wood of the table. Another breath and he wrinkled his nose. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg seemed oddly out of place. A strong gust snuffed the candles and plunged Grimm’s stone room-world into darkness. It grew colder. Somewhere, water dripped into a puddle.
Just when he thought he would be entombed forever, he heard a clinking, which grew louder until it became a full-blown clanging in his ears. It was deafening. His head ached and his spittle tasted of vomit. He heard music and laughter, grew warm, opened his eyes once more. A serving wench was stirring a massive cast iron pot that hung on a spit over the fire. He caught a glimpse of apples and oranges swirling in dark brown liquid. He smelled the cinnamon and nutmeg again. Cloves. Apple cider. He hadn’t realized he had plopped himself down next to a vat of wassail until just then.
Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green…here we come a-wondering, so fair to be seen…
The crowd was just as lively as he had left it, and it only took a few seconds for the feelings of gloom and doom to leave him. When the funk passed, Grimm got to his feet and joined everyone in a rousing chorus. He swayed along with the masses and smiled, but his mind couldn’t avoid the occasional detour. He thought of the imminent demise of Non Compos Mentis’ world championship dreams. He thought of the rest of the roster, and who else might be lining up to vie for his title. And he thought back to his dream, vision…whatever you wanted to call it. He didn’t know where the room was or what the book would have told him…what the book will tell him if and when he ever located it. One thing he did know was that it had something to do with his life outside the ring and beyond the hills. It had to do with the Brethren. And it was almost time to go back.
Toes tapped in time. Fingers flashed. Guitars and mandolins were plucked and strummed, fiddles sawed nearly in half, the upright bass rumbled in your gut. A few brave souls (or perchance a little under the influence) pushed back from their tables and demonstrated their best jig impressions. Those not dancing sang along, those not singing clapped and stomped. It was the end of another work week and the beginning of the Christmas season, and by golly they were going to celebrate both. It was a small pub a fair piece away from the more traveled highways and byways, but tonight it was wall to wall people. They admired the wreaths on the door and windows, the holly and juniper woven into the garland strung from rafters and antique woodwork, the sprig of mistletoe hanging from a doorframe. A well-tended fire crackled in a huge stone fireplace along one wall. There was nary a malicious thought among the revelers and everyone was a friend on this night. The sight would have made Charles Dickens himself proud.
As the musicians ended one ancient carol to the applause and huzzahs of those in attendance, and as they immediately leapt into another, a wild-haired man with ice-blue eyes made his way into the tavern. Cold and brisk as it was outside, he was immediately warmed by not only the fire but the general feelings of goodwill and charity among the crowd. If only he shared those sentiments. He couldn’t help but grin at the scene playing out before him and the occasional slap on the back, but as he whipped off his black toboggan and sunk into a chair by the hearth, he couldn’t help but dwell on the conflict within him. Here he was, among the jolliest folks he had come into contact with in a good long while, and what would probably be the last friendly faces he would be around for at least a fortnight, and instead of taking advantage of the opportunity he stewed. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but Phinehas Grimm could be unpleasant in a scene straight out of a Currier and Ives print. He couldn’t let it go. Some things were just too much of a burden to ignore. Even during such Yuletide carousing.
Grimm knew it was almost time for the annual PCW holiday break, but he couldn’t enjoy the prospect of time away from the usual madness because of the one thing that stood in its way: Last Call. The final pay per view of the year loomed on the horizon and Phinehas was already counting down the days until it was over. He was ready for a well-deserved rest, and he was also looking forward to showing Non Compos Mentis what true cruelty was. A few stints in prison and the occasional electroshock treatment session at the asylum might have seemed highly unpleasant at the time, but he had no idea…
Harsh thoughts for the most wonderful time of the year (according to Johnny Mathis), yes, but they were what kept Grimm up nights. Other than a tag team match or two, he had yet to step into a ring with his upcoming opponent. Apparently, though, that would not stop Non Compos Mentis from venting some deep-seated frustrations in the direction of the Abomination of Desolation. As far as he could remember he had not slighted NCM in any way, but that would not stop him from blaming Grimm for the world’s problems. Maybe it was true resentment for having to wait so long for a chance at the PCW world championship…maybe it was the realization that he had given up his rights to the North American title just for the privilege of being beaten senseless in front of what was sure to be an enormous pay per view crowd….whatever the reason, NCM was planning on taking it out on Grimm. And Grimm would be more than happy to oblige him the opportunity. Sadly, though, Non Compos Mentis’ illusions of grandeur would be of little use while he was being dropped repeatedly on his head. Oh, the things Grimm would do to him…
Gristle pulverized to pulp, snapped tendons…Grimm leaned back and closed his eyes. His mouth watered. Despite the noise, a combination of warmth in the small pub and his own weariness led to the inevitable dozing off. A few involuntary twitches later, he was out. But only for a few seconds. He snapped to attention and found himself in a room of stone. He shivered as the temperature dropped. A table beckoned him to the center of the room, where two lonely candles lit his steps. One green, one red, both dripping wax on dull brass candelabras. He drew near and saw a book splayed on the table. An imprint of a hand-lettered compass rose decorated the upper right corner of the page on the right. Flowing black script in fading ink filled the empty spaces of the paper. Dark splotches mottled the tome. It smelled of the grave. Before he could get a chance to read, though, the pages began to quiver, then flip at a dizzying pace. He could not make out the words, but it was clear that every square inch had been filled with writing. The cover slammed shut with a bang that echoed and hurt his ears. The same compass, form, size, and all, was embossed dead center on the front. The echo dissipated quickly in the dead stone.
A cold wind began to eddy about the room. Damp, it left him feeling clammy and alone. He took a deep breath and caught a whiff of the sea. He bent down, squinted, stared, saw lichens and barnacles clinging to both the cracked leather binding and the salt-stained wood of the table. Another breath and he wrinkled his nose. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg seemed oddly out of place. A strong gust snuffed the candles and plunged Grimm’s stone room-world into darkness. It grew colder. Somewhere, water dripped into a puddle.
Just when he thought he would be entombed forever, he heard a clinking, which grew louder until it became a full-blown clanging in his ears. It was deafening. His head ached and his spittle tasted of vomit. He heard music and laughter, grew warm, opened his eyes once more. A serving wench was stirring a massive cast iron pot that hung on a spit over the fire. He caught a glimpse of apples and oranges swirling in dark brown liquid. He smelled the cinnamon and nutmeg again. Cloves. Apple cider. He hadn’t realized he had plopped himself down next to a vat of wassail until just then.
Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green…here we come a-wondering, so fair to be seen…
The crowd was just as lively as he had left it, and it only took a few seconds for the feelings of gloom and doom to leave him. When the funk passed, Grimm got to his feet and joined everyone in a rousing chorus. He swayed along with the masses and smiled, but his mind couldn’t avoid the occasional detour. He thought of the imminent demise of Non Compos Mentis’ world championship dreams. He thought of the rest of the roster, and who else might be lining up to vie for his title. And he thought back to his dream, vision…whatever you wanted to call it. He didn’t know where the room was or what the book would have told him…what the book will tell him if and when he ever located it. One thing he did know was that it had something to do with his life outside the ring and beyond the hills. It had to do with the Brethren. And it was almost time to go back.
