12-16-2017, 03:18 PM
The interior of the barn is dimly lit by shafts of feeble lantern light which filter down through the floor of the loft overhead. The diffuse rays of pale, smoky radiance create strange silhouettes and deepen the pools of shadow which creep among the detritus and gather in the corners. Wooden crates and rusted tools are piled everywhere, neatly stacked or strewn haphazardly in equal measure, and the sugary-sour scent of rot is practically overpowering. Water drips from my body, pooling on the creaking, mildewed floorboards.
"Chatterly!" I demand, clenching my fists and glowering dangerously as I move deeper into the gloom. I shove aside a stack of corroded ploughshares, and they crash to the floor. The sound vanishes in the dark, leaving no echo, devoured by the clutter and drowned by the moaning of the wind.
At first there's no response - only the continued drone and drip of pounding rain on a decaying roof, and the muted howling of the storm.
"I know you're here! Show yourself!"
Just when I'm about to lose my temper, there's a rustle of moving fabric. A stocky, hooded figure drops gracefully from the loft, lantern in hand, to alight atop a pyramid of iron-bound crates. The sudden blaze of light casts brilliant shades of molten bronze off my golden hide, its stark illumination transforming a place that had previously possessed a certain quality of intriguing solitary desolateness into a mere room full of garbage.
"Ah," says the spymaster, hidden within his oiled cloak "You've arrived. Capital. I'd been concerned that you wouldn't be able to find the place, what with this bloody weather."
"Damn the weather. Why are we here Chatterly?" I snarl, "I don't understand why we're meeting in an abandoned tool-shed. I demand an explanation."
Chatterly hangs the lantern from a rusted hook adorning a nearby wooden beam and dismounts his perch, appearing before me in a whisper of cloth and leather. The light is behind him now, but it reflects off my scales, casting odd contrasts within the shadows of his hood. "I wanted to be certain that we weren't observed. It may not have occurred to you, King Ghidorah, but your presence in Harnburg hasn't gone entirely unnoticed by the 'verse at-large. Certain diplomat's within his Grace's court have begun to take an interest in your daily comings and goings - just as certain other parties have begun to notice the unusually high turnover among the castle staff. I'd prefer that neither category of person were aware of our business today."
I pull my lips back in a grin (an expression whose savage subtleties and double-meanings I continue to enjoy). "I have no idea what you're talking about. The missing servants have vanished utterly. Nobody can prove anything, Chatterly. Not even you."
He shakes his head, though whether he's frustrated or laughing I can't tell. The latter possibility sends a bolt of fury up my spine.
"Regardless," he says, in that calm and collected tone of his that I've so grown to loath, "they have noticed. Now, let us attend to the matter at hand."
He reaches into the folds of his cloak and retrieves a roll of parchment, which he unrolls across the top of a nearby crate, flattening it crisply with his gloved hands. I loom behind him, twice his size and shining gold; the urge to bring my fists crashing down on the back of his skull pulses behind my eyes, echoing the more brutal drumbeat that haunts my every thought: the relentless urge to burn this fiefdom and everyone in it and finally relish the intimate beauty of their eternal ruin.
Soon now. Very, very soon.
Ignorant of how close he stands to his doom, Chatterly continues talking.
"I assume, given your recent haunts, that you're aware the next caravan to Shatterdun is due in several days. Naturally, his Grace would prefer that it never reaches its destination, and that is of course you're job. However, this time it will require a somewhat different approach."
He jabs at the parchment - a map, as it turns out (a strange concept, and once for which I have little if any use) - with one finger.
"Here is the crossroads where you destroyed the previous caravan. It's unlikely that the next shipment will take a route which has proven so dangerous. My agents indicate that the teamsters have opted for the second most direct route - Which means that the best place to intercept them is here."
Chatterly points to a different crossroads, some dozen kilometers further north.
"The terrain at this point is uneven, and extremely rocky," the spymaster continues, "which is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, an ambush will be easy, but on the other there will be plenty of places for the teamsters and their escort to hide from your attack. No survivors, Ghidorah. I'm afraid you'll have your work cut out for you."
I stalk around to the other side of the crate, and glare down at the map. I wave my hand above it, sparking with golden astral charge, and it turns to ash, the miniature landscape vanishing in a puff of amber flames.
"No survivors," I echo, relishing every syllable of what may very well be my two favorite words. I hardly needed to be told - the idea is one of the pillars upon which my very being rests. "And my payment?"
"You will, of course, be compensated handsomely, in line with our previous arrangements."
Outside, lightning flashes, actinic brilliance blaring through the slats in the walls, doorless entrance and the holes in the roof. Thunder splits the air, and another grin twists my features.
I don't mention Mothra, though I'm certain she'll try to intervene - Chatterly doesn't seem to know about her, and she's none of his business, though I doubt he'd agree. I'm going to destroy her. That added bonus will only sweeten an experience which promises to blunt the edge from my thundering aesthetic appetites, that deep-seated need to take, and thereby appreciate things lost. It will not sate me for long - but it doesn't need to.
All I require is one last revelation before the finale. My restraint need only last long enough.
"Chatterly!" I demand, clenching my fists and glowering dangerously as I move deeper into the gloom. I shove aside a stack of corroded ploughshares, and they crash to the floor. The sound vanishes in the dark, leaving no echo, devoured by the clutter and drowned by the moaning of the wind.
At first there's no response - only the continued drone and drip of pounding rain on a decaying roof, and the muted howling of the storm.
"I know you're here! Show yourself!"
Just when I'm about to lose my temper, there's a rustle of moving fabric. A stocky, hooded figure drops gracefully from the loft, lantern in hand, to alight atop a pyramid of iron-bound crates. The sudden blaze of light casts brilliant shades of molten bronze off my golden hide, its stark illumination transforming a place that had previously possessed a certain quality of intriguing solitary desolateness into a mere room full of garbage.
"Ah," says the spymaster, hidden within his oiled cloak "You've arrived. Capital. I'd been concerned that you wouldn't be able to find the place, what with this bloody weather."
"Damn the weather. Why are we here Chatterly?" I snarl, "I don't understand why we're meeting in an abandoned tool-shed. I demand an explanation."
Chatterly hangs the lantern from a rusted hook adorning a nearby wooden beam and dismounts his perch, appearing before me in a whisper of cloth and leather. The light is behind him now, but it reflects off my scales, casting odd contrasts within the shadows of his hood. "I wanted to be certain that we weren't observed. It may not have occurred to you, King Ghidorah, but your presence in Harnburg hasn't gone entirely unnoticed by the 'verse at-large. Certain diplomat's within his Grace's court have begun to take an interest in your daily comings and goings - just as certain other parties have begun to notice the unusually high turnover among the castle staff. I'd prefer that neither category of person were aware of our business today."
I pull my lips back in a grin (an expression whose savage subtleties and double-meanings I continue to enjoy). "I have no idea what you're talking about. The missing servants have vanished utterly. Nobody can prove anything, Chatterly. Not even you."
He shakes his head, though whether he's frustrated or laughing I can't tell. The latter possibility sends a bolt of fury up my spine.
"Regardless," he says, in that calm and collected tone of his that I've so grown to loath, "they have noticed. Now, let us attend to the matter at hand."
He reaches into the folds of his cloak and retrieves a roll of parchment, which he unrolls across the top of a nearby crate, flattening it crisply with his gloved hands. I loom behind him, twice his size and shining gold; the urge to bring my fists crashing down on the back of his skull pulses behind my eyes, echoing the more brutal drumbeat that haunts my every thought: the relentless urge to burn this fiefdom and everyone in it and finally relish the intimate beauty of their eternal ruin.
Soon now. Very, very soon.
Ignorant of how close he stands to his doom, Chatterly continues talking.
"I assume, given your recent haunts, that you're aware the next caravan to Shatterdun is due in several days. Naturally, his Grace would prefer that it never reaches its destination, and that is of course you're job. However, this time it will require a somewhat different approach."
He jabs at the parchment - a map, as it turns out (a strange concept, and once for which I have little if any use) - with one finger.
"Here is the crossroads where you destroyed the previous caravan. It's unlikely that the next shipment will take a route which has proven so dangerous. My agents indicate that the teamsters have opted for the second most direct route - Which means that the best place to intercept them is here."
Chatterly points to a different crossroads, some dozen kilometers further north.
"The terrain at this point is uneven, and extremely rocky," the spymaster continues, "which is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, an ambush will be easy, but on the other there will be plenty of places for the teamsters and their escort to hide from your attack. No survivors, Ghidorah. I'm afraid you'll have your work cut out for you."
I stalk around to the other side of the crate, and glare down at the map. I wave my hand above it, sparking with golden astral charge, and it turns to ash, the miniature landscape vanishing in a puff of amber flames.
"No survivors," I echo, relishing every syllable of what may very well be my two favorite words. I hardly needed to be told - the idea is one of the pillars upon which my very being rests. "And my payment?"
"You will, of course, be compensated handsomely, in line with our previous arrangements."
Outside, lightning flashes, actinic brilliance blaring through the slats in the walls, doorless entrance and the holes in the roof. Thunder splits the air, and another grin twists my features.
I don't mention Mothra, though I'm certain she'll try to intervene - Chatterly doesn't seem to know about her, and she's none of his business, though I doubt he'd agree. I'm going to destroy her. That added bonus will only sweeten an experience which promises to blunt the edge from my thundering aesthetic appetites, that deep-seated need to take, and thereby appreciate things lost. It will not sate me for long - but it doesn't need to.
All I require is one last revelation before the finale. My restraint need only last long enough.