The Beginning
Mar. 9th, 2010 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kingandy posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
just_writingWritten as an epilogue to two characters from the Artificer LRP system - Mr Blunt and Mr Montague, heavily inspired by Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar from Neverwhere (though rendered through a very different lens). The below depicts their survival of a bloody revolution, and surrenders a glimpse into how two very mortal men could have reputations a century tall, or more.
Mr Montague heaved his foot against the fresh corpse of the militiawoman and slid it down the blade of his sword. As it slumped to the floor, he inspected the edge for nicks, all the while keeping his other hand tight around the neck of a revolutionary. The man's futile efforts to escape had ended some time ago but Mr Montague hadn't needed that arm for anything and, quite simply, it hadn't occured to him to let go.
Across the alley, Mr Blunt emerged from behind a pile of bodies. Mr Montague did not know or care to know Mr Blunt's business with the cadavers - nor did he need to look to know the smaller man's hands were as slick with red as his own. It was simply the way of things. Mr Montague's art was broad and generously shared, where Mr Blunt's more pointed nature worked best at a more intimate level.
"Is that the lot, Mr Blunt?" asked Mr Montague.
"Evidently, Mr Montague," replied his fellow, "Evidently. So it would appear. The rabble, formerly roused, has again been quieted and we return to some semblance of order." He broke off briefly to hurl a blade into the back of a young man trying to flee. "One way," continued Blunt, "Or another."
Mr Montague grunted a disinterested agreement and moved to the open door of a nearby flophouse, looking (perhaps hoping) for more trouble. As he strode the revolutionary's hobnailed boots skittered along the ground.
"Are you planning to bring that home, Mr Montague?" asked Mr Blunt in his lazily acerbic way. Mr Montague turned to look quizically at his companion, then looked down to his hands with an almost theatrical air of complete bafflement. Finally, realising, he allowed the remains to fall to the floor.
In that moment, with his attention distracted and his back to the door, a shape leapt towards him, silent and determined. With nary a moment's pause Mr Montague's newly-emptied arm whipped around and caught the shape mid-flight. A moment later, at a more leisurely speed, his head followed his hand and examined its new load.
A four-year-old child.
With a spoon.
In the boy's eyes Montague found only fear buried beneath a towering rage. The child's limbs flailed wildly, his tiny feet kicking out at Montague's chest even as the spoon somehow found purchase in the man's flesh. It held, standing perpendicular to the arm.
Mr Montague turned again to face his partner, this time with his face stretched to an unfamiliar configuration - a broad, beaming smile of delight, as of one who has just found his true calling in life. Or, in a lesser world, one who has discovered an unexpected deposit of jam at the bottom of a jar thought empty.
"Ahhh," agreed Mr Blunt, "Yes, I think that one will be coming home with us. Yes, some definite potential there." He peered keenly into the boy's eyes as Mr Montague held him forth. "Yes ... potential indeed," he concluded.
With the child slung gently but firmly over Mr Montague's shoulder (still kicking his arms and legs, struggling in vain against fate), the pair strode down the alley with renewed purpose, stepping over the fallen and the occasional limb. Before very long they outpaced the slowly-creeping blood.
As the sun rose over a new day the sounds of revolution faded into the distance. However the structures of power eventually settled, Mr Blunt and Mr Montague knew that the old familiar patterns would weave themselves anew; there would be those on the top, and those on the bottom. And each of those would, for different reasons, find themselves with inconveniences to overcome. There would be, as ever, opportunities for those who knew how to see.
These things they knew. Lalenth would endure. And there would always be a Blunt and a Montague.
Mr Montague heaved his foot against the fresh corpse of the militiawoman and slid it down the blade of his sword. As it slumped to the floor, he inspected the edge for nicks, all the while keeping his other hand tight around the neck of a revolutionary. The man's futile efforts to escape had ended some time ago but Mr Montague hadn't needed that arm for anything and, quite simply, it hadn't occured to him to let go.
Across the alley, Mr Blunt emerged from behind a pile of bodies. Mr Montague did not know or care to know Mr Blunt's business with the cadavers - nor did he need to look to know the smaller man's hands were as slick with red as his own. It was simply the way of things. Mr Montague's art was broad and generously shared, where Mr Blunt's more pointed nature worked best at a more intimate level.
"Is that the lot, Mr Blunt?" asked Mr Montague.
"Evidently, Mr Montague," replied his fellow, "Evidently. So it would appear. The rabble, formerly roused, has again been quieted and we return to some semblance of order." He broke off briefly to hurl a blade into the back of a young man trying to flee. "One way," continued Blunt, "Or another."
Mr Montague grunted a disinterested agreement and moved to the open door of a nearby flophouse, looking (perhaps hoping) for more trouble. As he strode the revolutionary's hobnailed boots skittered along the ground.
"Are you planning to bring that home, Mr Montague?" asked Mr Blunt in his lazily acerbic way. Mr Montague turned to look quizically at his companion, then looked down to his hands with an almost theatrical air of complete bafflement. Finally, realising, he allowed the remains to fall to the floor.
In that moment, with his attention distracted and his back to the door, a shape leapt towards him, silent and determined. With nary a moment's pause Mr Montague's newly-emptied arm whipped around and caught the shape mid-flight. A moment later, at a more leisurely speed, his head followed his hand and examined its new load.
A four-year-old child.
With a spoon.
In the boy's eyes Montague found only fear buried beneath a towering rage. The child's limbs flailed wildly, his tiny feet kicking out at Montague's chest even as the spoon somehow found purchase in the man's flesh. It held, standing perpendicular to the arm.
Mr Montague turned again to face his partner, this time with his face stretched to an unfamiliar configuration - a broad, beaming smile of delight, as of one who has just found his true calling in life. Or, in a lesser world, one who has discovered an unexpected deposit of jam at the bottom of a jar thought empty.
"Ahhh," agreed Mr Blunt, "Yes, I think that one will be coming home with us. Yes, some definite potential there." He peered keenly into the boy's eyes as Mr Montague held him forth. "Yes ... potential indeed," he concluded.
With the child slung gently but firmly over Mr Montague's shoulder (still kicking his arms and legs, struggling in vain against fate), the pair strode down the alley with renewed purpose, stepping over the fallen and the occasional limb. Before very long they outpaced the slowly-creeping blood.
As the sun rose over a new day the sounds of revolution faded into the distance. However the structures of power eventually settled, Mr Blunt and Mr Montague knew that the old familiar patterns would weave themselves anew; there would be those on the top, and those on the bottom. And each of those would, for different reasons, find themselves with inconveniences to overcome. There would be, as ever, opportunities for those who knew how to see.
These things they knew. Lalenth would endure. And there would always be a Blunt and a Montague.
