Post by Necthan Seith-Nun (R) on Jun 17, 2011 22:13:59 GMT -5
As I walked through the paths of the city I found myself confronted with what I would describe as I sense of something living and breathing. It was they way that the brick and stone walls of the city rose up high into the sun, the way that trees do in the deep wood. They pressed in on the alleyways and streets, constricting the arteries in which we passersby flowed through, walking and laughing and eating, talking, thinking, dreaming, loving and making love, buying and selling, buying and selling love. This was the Night’s Doorstep, a living breathing force so much different from that of Alba. In this creature the heart was beating red and strong, forcing itself through thin channels. In Alba it was free and untamed.
I closed my eyes a moment and reached out to sense what was around me. There was much hatred, and there was much love, and happiness, and desperation, and need, want, joy, selfishness, lust. The felling of lust was strong and my eyes fluttered open and I saw that I as at the foot of Mont Nuit, the place to which I had been called for the use of my services. Here the arteries opened up, allowing the high paying customers a good view. It was because of this that I pulled my coat closer around me, no longer protected from the early winter’s winds. It was a good coat, made in the uplands of Alba of the fur of ermine. Here such a thing was thought a luxury. There they were caught, skinned, and sewn together without a second thought.
I passed by the various houses, sensing submission, dominance, passion, love, modesty, as I went along. My feet came to a halt when I felt creativity boiling strong. This was Eglantine the home of my client. I opened the door and stepped within and found it half how I expected and half which surprised me. For my seventeenth birthday my father had given me a coin to go to whichever house of Naamah I saw fit. My choice, at the time, had been Dahlia. This was quite different. Here one did not simply come and look at fair forms, you could enjoy talent as well. I felt a warm rush at that feeling and allowed a girl to take my coat. She had a shape and features that men would consider to be highly attractive and was able to appreciate that fact. I told her that I was here to see a Muriel no Eglantine regarding a certain script, or series of scripts that he wished written for him to star in.
I met the man in a tucked away receiving room that did what it could to block off the sounds from outside, all which sounded very lovely on their own, but were a potent force for a headache when combined. “You want a series,” I told the man. “The best would be a series of three plays. That way you get your rising conflict spread out, luring the audience in. However it will be written in such a away that should the next week find that new patrons are coming to experience, they won’t be lost and you, my good man, will not have lost out.”
“Alright,” he said. “Three weeks was what the playhouse requested anyway.
I nodded. They playhouse had already spoken with me, or rather, I had spoken with then, because the way I saw it I needed to get my name out there, for any and all the reasons anyone should want their name to be known. Then I appeared to be in thought. Muriel no doubt suspected that I was contemplating the plot from some vast bank of imagination that I carried around with me the way that women in Menekhet carry baskets of goods upon their heads to and from the marketplace. Instead I was reading him for the plot of his own life. I saw a love, it could be a woman, a dream, I wasn’t sure. But … the love was consummated but yet unfulfilled. Something, or someone was holding him back and he wanted rid of it. He wanted to chop it out of his life. Whatever it was though... It was like a mother, sustaining him in some way. If I wanted to I could have put the pieces together, but sometimes it’s more fun to leave things a mystery. It certainly helped my creative process.
And so I bean to describe to him the plot. “Well you see, you, the hero were secretly born of the other world. However the land was in war and you were brought into this world for your protection. Sine that time the way between worlds is hidden from you and should you ever find it you will find the bridge guarded by a fearsome gatekeeper. Yet through your life you encounter people of the other world, faeries who take you under their wing and raise you as king over them until one day you leave them, knowing that, in this world of men one must find a balance. So ends the first play.” I paused to see if the adept had anything to say. He did not, but his expression was pleased.
“The second play is a basic quest for love. It is love at first sight, but you must convince her father that you are a good enough man. You then perform three tasks for him. I’ll make sure the quests are as naughty as heroic. That should appeal to the tastes of many in this city.” That got a good natured laugh out of him. “At the end the Bridgman steals her from you on the night before your wedding and imprisons her in the other-world. You must find the bridge and fight yo bring her back. However there is one last surprise...”
I closed my eyes a moment and reached out to sense what was around me. There was much hatred, and there was much love, and happiness, and desperation, and need, want, joy, selfishness, lust. The felling of lust was strong and my eyes fluttered open and I saw that I as at the foot of Mont Nuit, the place to which I had been called for the use of my services. Here the arteries opened up, allowing the high paying customers a good view. It was because of this that I pulled my coat closer around me, no longer protected from the early winter’s winds. It was a good coat, made in the uplands of Alba of the fur of ermine. Here such a thing was thought a luxury. There they were caught, skinned, and sewn together without a second thought.
I passed by the various houses, sensing submission, dominance, passion, love, modesty, as I went along. My feet came to a halt when I felt creativity boiling strong. This was Eglantine the home of my client. I opened the door and stepped within and found it half how I expected and half which surprised me. For my seventeenth birthday my father had given me a coin to go to whichever house of Naamah I saw fit. My choice, at the time, had been Dahlia. This was quite different. Here one did not simply come and look at fair forms, you could enjoy talent as well. I felt a warm rush at that feeling and allowed a girl to take my coat. She had a shape and features that men would consider to be highly attractive and was able to appreciate that fact. I told her that I was here to see a Muriel no Eglantine regarding a certain script, or series of scripts that he wished written for him to star in.
I met the man in a tucked away receiving room that did what it could to block off the sounds from outside, all which sounded very lovely on their own, but were a potent force for a headache when combined. “You want a series,” I told the man. “The best would be a series of three plays. That way you get your rising conflict spread out, luring the audience in. However it will be written in such a away that should the next week find that new patrons are coming to experience, they won’t be lost and you, my good man, will not have lost out.”
“Alright,” he said. “Three weeks was what the playhouse requested anyway.
I nodded. They playhouse had already spoken with me, or rather, I had spoken with then, because the way I saw it I needed to get my name out there, for any and all the reasons anyone should want their name to be known. Then I appeared to be in thought. Muriel no doubt suspected that I was contemplating the plot from some vast bank of imagination that I carried around with me the way that women in Menekhet carry baskets of goods upon their heads to and from the marketplace. Instead I was reading him for the plot of his own life. I saw a love, it could be a woman, a dream, I wasn’t sure. But … the love was consummated but yet unfulfilled. Something, or someone was holding him back and he wanted rid of it. He wanted to chop it out of his life. Whatever it was though... It was like a mother, sustaining him in some way. If I wanted to I could have put the pieces together, but sometimes it’s more fun to leave things a mystery. It certainly helped my creative process.
And so I bean to describe to him the plot. “Well you see, you, the hero were secretly born of the other world. However the land was in war and you were brought into this world for your protection. Sine that time the way between worlds is hidden from you and should you ever find it you will find the bridge guarded by a fearsome gatekeeper. Yet through your life you encounter people of the other world, faeries who take you under their wing and raise you as king over them until one day you leave them, knowing that, in this world of men one must find a balance. So ends the first play.” I paused to see if the adept had anything to say. He did not, but his expression was pleased.
“The second play is a basic quest for love. It is love at first sight, but you must convince her father that you are a good enough man. You then perform three tasks for him. I’ll make sure the quests are as naughty as heroic. That should appeal to the tastes of many in this city.” That got a good natured laugh out of him. “At the end the Bridgman steals her from you on the night before your wedding and imprisons her in the other-world. You must find the bridge and fight yo bring her back. However there is one last surprise...”