|
|
Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Jul 21, 2014 16:15:44 GMT -5
Write a story that ends with...
Cyril opened his eyes slowly. He closed them again, repeating this process several times while his vision focused. He saw the room turned on its side and it took him a moment to remember where he was. The warm, damp carpet pile against his face reminded him. Cyril sat up, slowly, pulling his face free of the blood-soaked rug. The world spun and his vision wavered, he thought for a moment he might lose consciousness again. His head hurt, a lot. He winced as his fingers made contact with the laceration at the base of his skull. With his free hand he pulled the tattered nightgown from the canopy bed nearby and held the wadded up silk to the wound hoping to slow the bleeding.
Slowly he turned his head, examining the room. A few small items lay scattered about the floor by the wardrobe. The royal purple drapery fluttered in the wind of the open window. The door was closed. Cyril spotted his knife in darkness, standing erect on the nightstand, blade shimmering in the moonlight. He stood and stumbled over to it, his eyes blurring with each laborious step. He could see it, jammed there into the hardwood, the tip pushed through a piece of parchment. He pulled the knife free and sat heavily on the luxurious bed. A part of his concussed brain wanted to finish the fall and go to sleep, but he forced himself to stay upright. Blinking against the pain he examined the note. The handwriting was elaborate and meticulous; it read:
Better luck next time.
XOXO
|
|
|
|
Post by Injin on Aug 4, 2014 0:26:45 GMT -5
Today was going to be the day that Cyril did what no other man had been able to do so far. Today, he was going to catch the dreaded thief known as the Red Angel. From what the rumors said about the thief, he had to be a large man. Interestingly enough, he was also supposed to be capable of amazing flexibility and strength. This was most likely the case, as all of them ended with the victims, who had set up every precaution, knocked out and bloodied on the ground, thus giving him the title that he seemed to bear without complaint.
And now, apparently, it was his turn to be robbed. A message had arrived in the post about the very thing that he'd protected all his life, the Queen's Opal, worth more than the entire land of Siam. Well, according to hearsay, anyways. It had belonged to his family for generations, and it was to be showed off during the Grand Exhibition Ball that he held every five years. As per tradition, of course, the Opal would take center stage during the ball and then be brought back to his room, where it was hidden in a compartment in the wall. One that you could not even see unless you had the Eye of Gommorah on you, a Tiger-Eye gem of almost equal rarity to the Queen's Opal. He also had that item, and had THAT hidden in a plain wall safe.
So far, as the Ball had commenced, there had been no inkling of the famed thief, no large men, no men of character that were even on the level of strength, if only by looks, that the Red Angel was supposed to be like. Peculiar. Perhaps the letter had been a hoax after all, another affectation of one of the many eccentric nobles who were here. He wouldn't put it past a man such as Sir Archibald Wilby, but he wasn't even here tonight. Sick with the flu, apparently, god's grace with that man. The two of them had been friends for years, so to hear he couldn't make it was saddening to say the least.
Cyril yawned, leaning against the bannister that lead upwards along the stairway towards his living quarters. No one matched the description, not even a member of the help! As he scanned the crowd, he saw the loveliest lady he'd seen in years. She approached slowly, moving with such grace that it could be suspected by some of the more uneducated classes that she was floating on air to get over to him. As she arrived, he stood up straight and bowed down, “Well met, milady, now who, may I ask, are thee?” he questioned, as she too bowed. It was always proper to respect the finer ladies who visited his home, for as an unmarried man...well, god didn't mind his usual attitude on the subject, at least it seemed that way.
“My name is Carmella von Rotterdam, I believe you knew my father before he was sent off to India, correct?” she spoke softly, her stature befitting her voice, “I remember that you visited our manse in the foothills of Derbyshire last September for my father's going away party” she said, her voice's pitch turning the statement into a question.
“Right” he said, caught off-guard, “I nearly shed a tear when I heard that your father was being transferred to India. Dreadful place, might get himself killed” he said, trying to piece together what he was missing. Had he really met this girl's father before? He could have sworn he knew of no noble with the last name of von Rotterdam, but at the same time it sounded like she already knew of him and searched for him for that reason. Curious.
Ah, she must have a brother. Looking over to her, he could swear he saw a resemblance. Her brother must look quite different to her with the exception of the facial area if he managed to forget. “How is your brother doing, Lady von Rotterdam?” he asked, bowing his head a bit as he asked. Always be formal, always be proper...that led to the right ending, usually.
Blinking, Carmella seemed to take a moment before she answered, “My...brother? Oh, yes” she said, pacing up the stairs a bit, with Cyril following her. It would behoove him to keep her occupied and accompanied for now, “He is an attache to the leading diplomat in Cathay, I'm afraid. Military life is not doing him justice, as it is not doing justice for my father. I was wondering when you'd remember him” she said, seeming to flutter up the steps with Cyril.
Cyril thought for a moment and shook it off. Nothing, it was nothing. “Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. At least he is not stationed in Dutch Indonesia, I've heard horror stories there” he said, shaking his head, their movements continuing to move in a spiral up the staircase as they rose higher, like a pair of hawks wafting in the breeze. Eventually rising up to the top floor, he looked down admiring the view, “Carmella, if I may be so bold, doesn't the scenery at the bottom of these steps look so magnificent from here? You can see each and every one of the guests that have decided to grace my manse, and yet, they seem so...insignificant from here” he said, watching the crowd.
Carmella pulled up next to him, stretching her upper torso over the bannister as she nodded, “Quite so, Lord Cyril. Say, why are there so many guards tonight? Do your parties normally contain such security measures?” she asked, her tone almost dour and afraid.
“Well, no, milady” he says, looking over the edge, “You see I got the most queer threat this morning. Apparently the Red Angel was supposed to appear here today, and yet here I am. Unmolested, unrobbed. Quite the show, I admit, but it was necessary. It seems my precautions have scared him away, not that I expected otherwise. I do have some of the more trained guards in all of the Shires in the county.”
“Do you now, Lord Cyril? I hadn't heard that. Then again, my family's estates are several counties away, so I would suppose this to be the case. What here is so valuable that it would be worth the theft?” she asked, a tone seeming to wrap around his neck as she spoke.
Blinking for a moment, he was a bit confused. Surely she knew that the Queen's Opal had been displayed all night up until her approach of him? Perhaps she was a tad daft. That didn't sound like an unwise assumption, based on his memory of her brother. He had been a bad student, but had, with some sort of connivance, gotten commission. Where that fool was at the moment didn't matter, for now he had to..talk..to his sister for a while.
“The Queen's Opal, Dear Carmella, is what was being guarded. It Is now safely in the vault that it is kept in during the day, in the most secure room in my entire estate. My own bedroom, of course. I sleep nowhere else and am a light sleeper. It is impossible to get into without getting another gem of lesser value to open the vault” he said proudly, looking to her.
She seemed intrigued as a sparkle seemed to shine in her eyes. Ah, women and their jewelry. How she hadn't heard of it by now was beyond him, but now that she had some sort of inkling of what he had, she looked just about ready to throw herself at him. Well, that was perfect for him, wasn't it? Smirking to himself, the smile faded the moment he realized that Carmella's attention was back to the crowd. Right, he had to focus. He could gloat to himself tomorrow morning.
Tapping her shoulder, he gave her a slight smile, with her returning the favor, “Would you like to retire, Carmella? It is getting late and some of the guests have already decided that my party is over for me” he said, absent-mindedly pointing down. They tended to do that, even if they weren't already. The room HAD been rather packed earlier, almost like a bunch of sardines, really, but now it was a more sparse affair. People, noble and servant, would leave over the next hour, not wanting to be known as that person who tended to overstay their welcome.
Allowing the lady to enter his bedroom first, just in case the Red Angel somehow sneaked into his room ahead of him, which he doubted was even possible, Cyril soon found himself in the room with her. “Well then, I suppose I should ask my butler to get us both a nightcap of sorts. Would you like some coffee, Milady Carmella?” he asked, kissing her hand as he looked up towards her.
“Oh, no, your personality is...as, well, electrifying as I need to stay awake, Lord Cyril” she spoke, glancing to the obvious safe in the wall.
“Curious are we?” he said, walking over to the safe and knocking on it in the most appropriate manner. Odd, he could have sworn he put the painting over the miniature vault earlier before he'd come down for the party, but he could have easily forgotten when he put it back. No matter.
“Yes, Lord Cyril, what exactly do you use for this...opening of the vault, technique?” she asked, a little giggle after her sentence as she seemed genuinely excited to find out.
Smirking again, Lord Cyril took out the Tiger's Eye, the Eye of Gomorrah and showed it to her, “This, my dear Carmella, is the Eye of Gomorrah. Taken from the biblical city itself, or at least that was what the merchant who sold it to me said. It IS what he said it was, a Tiger's Eye gem, but it has a rare property. It reflects light almost perfectly, to the point of magnification. If I point it at the right place on the wall whilst a candle reflects its light upon it, the real vault in my room opens up.”
Smiling, Carmella turned to him and nodded, “How extraordinary. I can't help but feel the vapors come upon me, would you please go get me something more comfortable to sleep in whilst I try my best to recover?” she said, sitting back in one of the chairs in the room with her hand back against her head. Females tended to act this way around him, so it was no wonder to see Carmella going through the same dire straights that they all seemed to endure whenever he showed them anything he'd created.
The vault was of his own design, after all, with the help of a few architects so that the room wouldn't look unsightly as a result. Walking into the other room to grab an old night robe, Lord Cyril stopped as he supposed he heard something. Probably Carmella slipping out of her clothes, there was nothing wrong with a lady showing her colors to him, after all. He was no court jester when it came to nudity, he was well versed with the craft of...there was that noise again. What WAS she doing in there?
Trying to open the door, he found something on the other side pushing back. Drat, had the Red Angel been waiting in secret under his bed to ambush him...oh no, Carmella was alone with the beast! He HAD to get back into the room, as soon as possible, if only to maintain her honor, the poor girl was likely being roughed up whilst he twiddled his thumbs in worry. Backing up, he slammed into the door, his right side ricocheting against the hardened oak veneer. Drat, next to nothing, what in the room was so heavy as to be able to block him out?
The dresser was plenty heavy enough, but how could it possibly have gotten from one side of the room to the other, unless it had been moved the moment he'd entered the closet? Backing up again, he slammed into the door harder, this time wincing as his arm seemed to not be able to take the blow as well as he'd hoped. His body would not tire out when he was at the whims of a murderous thief! Backing up a third time, his face as red as Carmella's hair, Lord Cyril of Brandybuck, Baron of Doreshire, was not about to let his most valuable possession fall to a coward!
Slamming as hard as he possibly could muster against the door, he stumbled through the now open doorway, surprised as the door, which had formerly been blocked by something heavy, was now free of obstruction. Hitting the bed with his legs, he dropped the silken nightgown on the bed, torn from his exertion, and fell face first onto the bed. Shaking his head and drawing the knife he always had on his person, he rapidly turned around, only to find no one there. Where was Carmella?
Standing up and looking around, he felt a slight breeze one moment, and a cut at the base of his skull the next. What was...what was happening? Where was Carmella and who...who had....?
“I'll send Carmella your regards, Cyril” a voice said, a familiar twinge to it as Lord Cyril, first of his name, fell to the floor, blood entering his vision, darkness following shortly after.
Cyril opened his eyes slowly. He closed them again, repeating this process several times while his vision focused. He saw the room turned on its side and it took him a moment to remember where he was. The warm, damp carpet pile against his face reminded him. Cyril sat up, slowly, pulling his face free of the blood-soaked rug. The world spun and his vision wavered, he thought for a moment he might lose consciousness again. His head hurt, a lot. He winced as his fingers made contact with the laceration at the base of his skull. With his free hand he pulled the tattered nightgown from the canopy bed nearby and held the wadded up silk to the wound hoping to slow the bleeding.
Slowly he turned his head, examining the room. A few small items lay scattered about the floor by the wardrobe. The royal purple drapery fluttered in the wind of the open window. The door was closed. Cyril spotted his knife in darkness, standing erect on the nightstand, blade shimmering in the moonlight. He stood and stumbled over to it, his eyes blurring with each laborious step. He could see it, jammed there into the hardwood, the tip pushed through a piece of parchment. He pulled the knife free and sat heavily on the luxurious bed. A part of his concussed brain wanted to finish the fall and go to sleep, but he forced himself to stay upright. Blinking against the pain he examined the note. The handwriting was elaborate and meticulous; it read:
Better luck next time.
XOXO
|
|
