Post by Grimm on May 30, 2014 9:56:57 GMT -5
The flame wavered, flickered, even though there was no breeze. How could there be, this far down? This deep? He shouldn’t have been able to hear the wind and rain, either, but there you have it.
“I smell smoke.” A chuckle collapsed into a sigh. “Oh, that’s right.”
Whether his reply was in regards to a memory of fire, or his recollection that there was no sister around to offer her own theories and admonishments, was between Phinehas Dillinger and the stones of a long-overlooked room. A room unused for as long as Phinehas could remember. The one with the faded threadbare rug, the bricked up doorway in one wall, the bouquet of old and forgotten things. The table worn smooth in the middle of that room, with a candle guttering in its own puddle of wax. And the candle shimmering through a jar of pickled…somethings, swollen and engorged on brine. Light spilled across the table and came to rest on Phinehas as he sat fondling a mandolin. Looking as if he plucked an old tune under a sea of vinegar. A time of lucid but cloudy dreaming.
An interesting choice for spending a quiet evening at home. Why was he down here in the first place, you may ask.
Why?
What’s it to you? Maybe he was looking for answers. Or validation for decisions he’d already made, for avenues already determined. Perhaps as an escape. Are you arrogant enough to claim to know all the secrets of the House of Grimm?
Please.
He watched her as she floated down.
Phinehas tuned the A strings and strummed to his satisfaction. He knew he couldn’t sit here forever, but this new tune wouldn’t learn itself.
And she came to rest on the river side.
And her bones were washed by the rolling tide.
He’d have to fight again. Soon. And against multiple opponents. There were so many names. Wasp. Cory Steel. Eden. Sapphire. Gem. Andy D. Tyler Scott. High Tide. Crazy Boy. Rick Majors.
Michael Wryght.
Grimm.
Legends, veterans, newcomers. Phinehas knew how this was supposed to work, but he would have no part of it. This was neither the time nor place for bravado and outrageous threats. He had nothing to say to them. Nothing to prove. No one to impress. If one insisted, one would be free to check the PCW Random Facts or simply scroll through the win/loss records if that was how one wanted to judge worth and legacies.
Phinehas just wanted his sister back.
He made a fiddle peg of her long finger bone.
He strung his fiddle bow with her long yellow hair.
And he made a little fiddle of her little breast bone.
Fiddle. Mandolin. To-may-toe, to-mah-toe.
Believe what you want. Convince yourself if you can. Myths, legends, and folktales all had their origins as actual flesh-and-blood occurrences. They weren’t just pulled willy-nilly out of the Aether. The people heard the hill noises, after all, and talked of shapes shambling through the trees, but not even those down in Hangtown knew for certain.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Grimm’s philosophies? Dreams?
Arrows falling like rain.
Hellfire and brimstone.
A frozen backdrop of snow and ice.
But heaven forbid Grimm not approach One Fifty Five as the end-all, be-all to his career. Fighting for that last spot in the Icemann Invitational Tournament would have to move to the forefront of his docket. The President himself stated the winner of this particular match could very well have the best chance of walking away the winner of the tournament. And one should not disappoint the President.
But first, he had a song to master.
And the only tune he would play was, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.
“I smell smoke.” A chuckle collapsed into a sigh. “Oh, that’s right.”
Whether his reply was in regards to a memory of fire, or his recollection that there was no sister around to offer her own theories and admonishments, was between Phinehas Dillinger and the stones of a long-overlooked room. A room unused for as long as Phinehas could remember. The one with the faded threadbare rug, the bricked up doorway in one wall, the bouquet of old and forgotten things. The table worn smooth in the middle of that room, with a candle guttering in its own puddle of wax. And the candle shimmering through a jar of pickled…somethings, swollen and engorged on brine. Light spilled across the table and came to rest on Phinehas as he sat fondling a mandolin. Looking as if he plucked an old tune under a sea of vinegar. A time of lucid but cloudy dreaming.
An interesting choice for spending a quiet evening at home. Why was he down here in the first place, you may ask.
Why?
What’s it to you? Maybe he was looking for answers. Or validation for decisions he’d already made, for avenues already determined. Perhaps as an escape. Are you arrogant enough to claim to know all the secrets of the House of Grimm?
Please.
He watched her as she floated down.
Phinehas tuned the A strings and strummed to his satisfaction. He knew he couldn’t sit here forever, but this new tune wouldn’t learn itself.
And she came to rest on the river side.
And her bones were washed by the rolling tide.
He’d have to fight again. Soon. And against multiple opponents. There were so many names. Wasp. Cory Steel. Eden. Sapphire. Gem. Andy D. Tyler Scott. High Tide. Crazy Boy. Rick Majors.
Michael Wryght.
Grimm.
Legends, veterans, newcomers. Phinehas knew how this was supposed to work, but he would have no part of it. This was neither the time nor place for bravado and outrageous threats. He had nothing to say to them. Nothing to prove. No one to impress. If one insisted, one would be free to check the PCW Random Facts or simply scroll through the win/loss records if that was how one wanted to judge worth and legacies.
Phinehas just wanted his sister back.
He made a fiddle peg of her long finger bone.
He strung his fiddle bow with her long yellow hair.
And he made a little fiddle of her little breast bone.
Fiddle. Mandolin. To-may-toe, to-mah-toe.
Believe what you want. Convince yourself if you can. Myths, legends, and folktales all had their origins as actual flesh-and-blood occurrences. They weren’t just pulled willy-nilly out of the Aether. The people heard the hill noises, after all, and talked of shapes shambling through the trees, but not even those down in Hangtown knew for certain.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Grimm’s philosophies? Dreams?
Arrows falling like rain.
Hellfire and brimstone.
A frozen backdrop of snow and ice.
But heaven forbid Grimm not approach One Fifty Five as the end-all, be-all to his career. Fighting for that last spot in the Icemann Invitational Tournament would have to move to the forefront of his docket. The President himself stated the winner of this particular match could very well have the best chance of walking away the winner of the tournament. And one should not disappoint the President.
But first, he had a song to master.
And the only tune he would play was, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.
