Post by Chains on Feb 27, 2009 14:09:52 GMT -5
His first thought since the initial darkness was: It must be Chainday. For a moment, that made perfect sense, but with the return of feeling in his limbs, came the return of his logic and he laughed at himself. Chainday? There was no such thing as Chainday. There was only Chains, and there was only a Noose. Had he dozed off? He hadn’t meant to.
Chains opened his left eye. It was hard to see much of anything at first. It seemed he had regained consciousness sometime in the middle of dark, undisturbed night and his vision was still blurred from sleep. That meant there would be no crows. That was a shame. Chains rather liked tormenting the crows. It was his one form of amusement: hung from the Gibbet and left to die, he’d wait until a couple of the greedy bastards came down for a beak full of flesh. Just when he felt them take hold of part of his anatomy (and they seemed to prefer the face or the neck) he’d suddenly grab at them. He missed more than he caught but he caught quite a few. They’d squawk and bite at his fingers, as he’d casually and contemplatively strangle them. He’d let their bodies drop to his feet and in a discovery he found rather hilarious, the carcasses only seemed to entice their still living comrades. He had a nice pile of dead and broken crows at his feet the last he remembered.
Chains opened his right eye. The details of the unfamiliar room swam into focus. Utilitarian room. Not comfortable, but serviceable. Harder than average bed, musty pillowcase, musty blankets… He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his face. Was he judging already? After being left hanging on the city limits, after being left like a broken scarecrow to rot and die, was he really complaining? His neck felt strange. Chains rolled over onto his back and sat up moving with caution, reaching up with his fingers to touch the hollow of his throat. No rope. No noose. Just the watch now, hanging from the chain, frozen at half past three. The conformation triggered the growth of his fledgling smile into a full-toothed shark’s grin. No wounds: his skin was unbranded, unbroken, un-scored by the beaks of his pretty crows.
Chains sprung from the bed. His previous hesitation abandoned, he moved with energy and power now. He realized that it was cold: much colder than he was used to be a substantial amount. And there was this tang to the air, a kind of scent that could only mean Big City. His teeth were startlingly white in the darkness as he crossed the room to the window in the far wall. The latch seemed to be rusted shut but Chains’ tugged it open without apparent exertion. He leaned forwards eagerly, eyes wide, and stared down at the urban sprawl laid out before him. At the lights and the ragged teeth of the buildings, at the dull shine of dull steel. There was misery here, coiling in the shadows. There was despair and crushed hope and shattered bodies. It was so massive. So quietly savage. So…enticing.
“But where to start?” Chains mused to himself.
Some motion caught his eye and he reacted to it almost without thinking. Leaning out of the window, he shot his hand into the open air and caught the bird in mid-flight. The stopped momentum of the avian body rocked him dangerously forward. The crow struggled fiercely in his hands but Chains had braced himself against the windowsill and he pulled his prey inside the dim room. “Hush, hush,” he told his victim as the bird flapped in panic and anger. “I was just thinking of your kind.”
Without preamble, Chains shifted his grip on the animal so that he held it by the neck. Its head twisted around, slashing at his fingers with its open beak. Chains ignored the blood welling up on his digits and with his free hand, casually took the crow’s right wing in his fist, up by the primary flight pinions, and ripped. There was a wet, organic tear. The wing came free in a mist of blood. The crow screamed. Chains tossed the appendage onto the bed and repeated his procedure for the left wing, with some difficulty for the animal was half-crazed by pain. When the second wing had joined the first on the bed, Chains snapped the bird’s neck and threw the carcass out of the window.
He held his hands up, looking balefully at the wounds on his knuckles and fingers. “No one knows how to die with decency anymore,” he commented. He retrieved the wings from the bed and took them to the window, shaking the worst of the gore from his fingers as he did so.
A fine wind had sprung up.
Chains closed his burning eyes and smiled to feel it across his face. “Very well city of mine,” he breathed. “Let us get acquainted you and I.”
He re-opened his eyes and flung the severed wings into the air. He laughed as the winds caught them and took them up. “Show me where to start!”
He was still laughing in exultation as his offerings were swept away, borne north in tandem. North, ever north.
He was still laughing as he hauled himself lithely out of the window and onto the roof.
Chains opened his left eye. It was hard to see much of anything at first. It seemed he had regained consciousness sometime in the middle of dark, undisturbed night and his vision was still blurred from sleep. That meant there would be no crows. That was a shame. Chains rather liked tormenting the crows. It was his one form of amusement: hung from the Gibbet and left to die, he’d wait until a couple of the greedy bastards came down for a beak full of flesh. Just when he felt them take hold of part of his anatomy (and they seemed to prefer the face or the neck) he’d suddenly grab at them. He missed more than he caught but he caught quite a few. They’d squawk and bite at his fingers, as he’d casually and contemplatively strangle them. He’d let their bodies drop to his feet and in a discovery he found rather hilarious, the carcasses only seemed to entice their still living comrades. He had a nice pile of dead and broken crows at his feet the last he remembered.
Chains opened his right eye. The details of the unfamiliar room swam into focus. Utilitarian room. Not comfortable, but serviceable. Harder than average bed, musty pillowcase, musty blankets… He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his face. Was he judging already? After being left hanging on the city limits, after being left like a broken scarecrow to rot and die, was he really complaining? His neck felt strange. Chains rolled over onto his back and sat up moving with caution, reaching up with his fingers to touch the hollow of his throat. No rope. No noose. Just the watch now, hanging from the chain, frozen at half past three. The conformation triggered the growth of his fledgling smile into a full-toothed shark’s grin. No wounds: his skin was unbranded, unbroken, un-scored by the beaks of his pretty crows.
Chains sprung from the bed. His previous hesitation abandoned, he moved with energy and power now. He realized that it was cold: much colder than he was used to be a substantial amount. And there was this tang to the air, a kind of scent that could only mean Big City. His teeth were startlingly white in the darkness as he crossed the room to the window in the far wall. The latch seemed to be rusted shut but Chains’ tugged it open without apparent exertion. He leaned forwards eagerly, eyes wide, and stared down at the urban sprawl laid out before him. At the lights and the ragged teeth of the buildings, at the dull shine of dull steel. There was misery here, coiling in the shadows. There was despair and crushed hope and shattered bodies. It was so massive. So quietly savage. So…enticing.
“But where to start?” Chains mused to himself.
Some motion caught his eye and he reacted to it almost without thinking. Leaning out of the window, he shot his hand into the open air and caught the bird in mid-flight. The stopped momentum of the avian body rocked him dangerously forward. The crow struggled fiercely in his hands but Chains had braced himself against the windowsill and he pulled his prey inside the dim room. “Hush, hush,” he told his victim as the bird flapped in panic and anger. “I was just thinking of your kind.”
Without preamble, Chains shifted his grip on the animal so that he held it by the neck. Its head twisted around, slashing at his fingers with its open beak. Chains ignored the blood welling up on his digits and with his free hand, casually took the crow’s right wing in his fist, up by the primary flight pinions, and ripped. There was a wet, organic tear. The wing came free in a mist of blood. The crow screamed. Chains tossed the appendage onto the bed and repeated his procedure for the left wing, with some difficulty for the animal was half-crazed by pain. When the second wing had joined the first on the bed, Chains snapped the bird’s neck and threw the carcass out of the window.
He held his hands up, looking balefully at the wounds on his knuckles and fingers. “No one knows how to die with decency anymore,” he commented. He retrieved the wings from the bed and took them to the window, shaking the worst of the gore from his fingers as he did so.
A fine wind had sprung up.
Chains closed his burning eyes and smiled to feel it across his face. “Very well city of mine,” he breathed. “Let us get acquainted you and I.”
He re-opened his eyes and flung the severed wings into the air. He laughed as the winds caught them and took them up. “Show me where to start!”
He was still laughing in exultation as his offerings were swept away, borne north in tandem. North, ever north.
He was still laughing as he hauled himself lithely out of the window and onto the roof.