Post by Kosovo on Apr 4, 2014 18:09:07 GMT -6
Awareness faded into Astrit's dreams so slowly that he did not notice at first that he was waking up. Then again, he hadn't known that he was dreaming.
He knelt on a metal grate, stunned into stillness. All he could see was the metal, and glowing eyes below, and a pair of shoes so dirty he couldn't tell what kind they had been originally. The shoes were on a man's feet. The man's head was far, far above Astrit's, so far that the boy could not even think of looking up that high.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, and suddenly the cold to which his stillness had inured him slipped in and brushed his skin.
He felt cold. Everything was cold. Certainly the heart of the madman who had just disarmed him was cold. They were fighting to the death, and Astrit didn't have a weapon anymore. His knife had gone flying, and he didn't see where it had fallen. Had it dissolved into the air?
Another slight movement brought him into contact with the uneven stones of the wall.
Some slight pressure at his back—what was going on? He tried to move, but found that he could not. Then there was a strange sound, and he was pushed over onto his back. The man's red eyes stared pitilessly down at him. "The Manor is no place for children," said the Prussian soldier. Matching his eyes was the red liquid dripping slowly off his blade, and suddenly Astrit understood.
The horrible epiphany jolted him into wakefulness. His eyes flew open, and the palm of his hand smacked the ground. The sound of that blow echoed slightly in the empty tunnels. Looking around frantically, trying to get his bearings, Astrit could only confirm that he was not, in fact, dead. His hand was solid, his racing heart was giving plenty of confirmation that it was still functional, and he desperately needed the rapid breaths he drew. And he remembered how that battle had really ended: Gilbert had surrendered to him rather than kill him. He was alive, but where?
It was a tunnel, with a simple barrel-vaulted ceiling, and the length of it as far as Astrit could see was bathed in a soft yellow light emitted by a series of oil lamps. On other occasions, he might have thought the light comforting, but whether because of the lingering effects of the nightmare or because of some quality of the place, it made no difference to him now. It was just part of the backdrop.
The tunnel was bland and featureless, aside from the irregularities in the stones. There were no signs of life having been there, not so much as mouse tracks in the dirt floor. If it hadn't been for the lamps, Astrit would have easily believed that he was the first living thing to see this place in many years, but lamps had to be lit by someone, and maintained. Someone would need to refill the oil when it was running low. All of the lamps were burning steadily, none being burned out. That meant people had to have been here. And he himself had to have ended up here somehow, right? He certainly didn't remember coming here on his own power.
What did it mean, that he was here? he wondered. How had he gotten here? He doubted that it was a safe place to be; it didn't feel safe to him at all, despite the decidedly secret feeling in the air of the tunnel. In fact, it seemed completely possible that he was beneath the Manor, which was in all likelihood well in range of its influence.
As always, the only thing to do about it was to keep moving. He was hungry, but that meant nothing for as long as there was no food to be had. He was thirsty, but the tunnel was bone dry. The only thing to do was to go find a place less empty, and so Astrit stood up and automatically gathered up the sword that he had been lying almost on top of. So that had ended up with him again.
The first door he came to was a wooden thing set into the wall. He wondered what it led to. If he saw any signs of a monster behind it, he resolved, he would slam it shut again. But he had to find somewhere to go, and he didn't know if it was (or if there was) a way out of the tunnel, so he eased it carefully open and peered around it.
No monsters were visible. All Astrit could see was a cellar, replete with a veritable maze of wine racks full of bottles and nothing else. His curiosity piqued, he took a few cautious steps inside.
The motionless underground air had not blown in his face when he had opened the door—pressure on either side being apparently the same—but now that he was inside the room, the distinctive scent of wine enveloped him. It smelled vaguely fruitlike, with the underlying bite of alcohol. Astrit couldn't describe it more clearly than that, but the smell was strong enough that he was already starting to feel a bit light-headed, as if he was getting tipsy just from being in the same room as so much wine.
He was fully aware of plenty of reasons why he should just leave now and go looking for some other kind of food or drink. If he was already getting dizzy, actually drinking any of this stuff would surely wreck his thinking ability and his reaction time to a degree that he absolutely could not afford while there was still the possibility of danger. That alone should be reason enough, really, and beyond that there was...
Astrit spat a curse, the crudest he could think of, ending his train of thought. That was what he thought of this Manor, and its monsters, and for that matter the voice of reason in his head. He was hungry, and thirsty, and absolutely sick of everything about this place. It was downright remarkable how much more appealing getting drunk sounded when he took into account that the alternative was continuing to be entirely conscious of the constant danger on an empty stomach.
Resolutely, he pulled a few bottles out of the nearest rack. They were all labeled with their age. All of them appeared to have been here since before the Manor had become as it was, and some appeared to date back as far as two hundred years. With other substances, Astrit might have wondered if it was still good, but he had heard that the truly delightful thing about wine was that, if stored correctly (and he was fairly confident that this was, despite lacking the sort of technical knowledge that would have allowed him to make such a judgment for himself, simply based on his observation that the sort of cultured, wealthy despots who would run a place like this and go on to run sadistic gladiatorial games even after their deaths would surely never deign to drink inferior wine), it became better over time rather than worse. Only honey would stay safe longer. He seemed to remember that it had disinfectant properties, too, and would therefore have already long since killed any diseases that might have been around.
The bottles were corked, of course. Astrit supposed he could hunt around for a corkscrew, or he could use his knife as a jury-rigged substitute. The knife came out of his pocket. It took him a few tries to figure out how to use it to prize the cork out of the bottle, but eventually it came out and he dropped it on the floor.
The wine had a heavy, thick flavor that felt strange on his tongue. He could feel, as much as taste, the sharp bite of the alcohol. This he observed in a rather detached manner. What he cared about more at this point was that it was wet and had some kind of substance, which meant that he at least wouldn't die of hunger or thirst. The sudden large increase in the dizzy buzz in his head was just a bonus, one that at least muted the constant drone of fear that he always felt when he thought he was in reach of the Manor, ever since his death match.
He knelt on a metal grate, stunned into stillness. All he could see was the metal, and glowing eyes below, and a pair of shoes so dirty he couldn't tell what kind they had been originally. The shoes were on a man's feet. The man's head was far, far above Astrit's, so far that the boy could not even think of looking up that high.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, and suddenly the cold to which his stillness had inured him slipped in and brushed his skin.
He felt cold. Everything was cold. Certainly the heart of the madman who had just disarmed him was cold. They were fighting to the death, and Astrit didn't have a weapon anymore. His knife had gone flying, and he didn't see where it had fallen. Had it dissolved into the air?
Another slight movement brought him into contact with the uneven stones of the wall.
Some slight pressure at his back—what was going on? He tried to move, but found that he could not. Then there was a strange sound, and he was pushed over onto his back. The man's red eyes stared pitilessly down at him. "The Manor is no place for children," said the Prussian soldier. Matching his eyes was the red liquid dripping slowly off his blade, and suddenly Astrit understood.
The horrible epiphany jolted him into wakefulness. His eyes flew open, and the palm of his hand smacked the ground. The sound of that blow echoed slightly in the empty tunnels. Looking around frantically, trying to get his bearings, Astrit could only confirm that he was not, in fact, dead. His hand was solid, his racing heart was giving plenty of confirmation that it was still functional, and he desperately needed the rapid breaths he drew. And he remembered how that battle had really ended: Gilbert had surrendered to him rather than kill him. He was alive, but where?
It was a tunnel, with a simple barrel-vaulted ceiling, and the length of it as far as Astrit could see was bathed in a soft yellow light emitted by a series of oil lamps. On other occasions, he might have thought the light comforting, but whether because of the lingering effects of the nightmare or because of some quality of the place, it made no difference to him now. It was just part of the backdrop.
The tunnel was bland and featureless, aside from the irregularities in the stones. There were no signs of life having been there, not so much as mouse tracks in the dirt floor. If it hadn't been for the lamps, Astrit would have easily believed that he was the first living thing to see this place in many years, but lamps had to be lit by someone, and maintained. Someone would need to refill the oil when it was running low. All of the lamps were burning steadily, none being burned out. That meant people had to have been here. And he himself had to have ended up here somehow, right? He certainly didn't remember coming here on his own power.
What did it mean, that he was here? he wondered. How had he gotten here? He doubted that it was a safe place to be; it didn't feel safe to him at all, despite the decidedly secret feeling in the air of the tunnel. In fact, it seemed completely possible that he was beneath the Manor, which was in all likelihood well in range of its influence.
As always, the only thing to do about it was to keep moving. He was hungry, but that meant nothing for as long as there was no food to be had. He was thirsty, but the tunnel was bone dry. The only thing to do was to go find a place less empty, and so Astrit stood up and automatically gathered up the sword that he had been lying almost on top of. So that had ended up with him again.
The first door he came to was a wooden thing set into the wall. He wondered what it led to. If he saw any signs of a monster behind it, he resolved, he would slam it shut again. But he had to find somewhere to go, and he didn't know if it was (or if there was) a way out of the tunnel, so he eased it carefully open and peered around it.
No monsters were visible. All Astrit could see was a cellar, replete with a veritable maze of wine racks full of bottles and nothing else. His curiosity piqued, he took a few cautious steps inside.
The motionless underground air had not blown in his face when he had opened the door—pressure on either side being apparently the same—but now that he was inside the room, the distinctive scent of wine enveloped him. It smelled vaguely fruitlike, with the underlying bite of alcohol. Astrit couldn't describe it more clearly than that, but the smell was strong enough that he was already starting to feel a bit light-headed, as if he was getting tipsy just from being in the same room as so much wine.
He was fully aware of plenty of reasons why he should just leave now and go looking for some other kind of food or drink. If he was already getting dizzy, actually drinking any of this stuff would surely wreck his thinking ability and his reaction time to a degree that he absolutely could not afford while there was still the possibility of danger. That alone should be reason enough, really, and beyond that there was...
Astrit spat a curse, the crudest he could think of, ending his train of thought. That was what he thought of this Manor, and its monsters, and for that matter the voice of reason in his head. He was hungry, and thirsty, and absolutely sick of everything about this place. It was downright remarkable how much more appealing getting drunk sounded when he took into account that the alternative was continuing to be entirely conscious of the constant danger on an empty stomach.
Resolutely, he pulled a few bottles out of the nearest rack. They were all labeled with their age. All of them appeared to have been here since before the Manor had become as it was, and some appeared to date back as far as two hundred years. With other substances, Astrit might have wondered if it was still good, but he had heard that the truly delightful thing about wine was that, if stored correctly (and he was fairly confident that this was, despite lacking the sort of technical knowledge that would have allowed him to make such a judgment for himself, simply based on his observation that the sort of cultured, wealthy despots who would run a place like this and go on to run sadistic gladiatorial games even after their deaths would surely never deign to drink inferior wine), it became better over time rather than worse. Only honey would stay safe longer. He seemed to remember that it had disinfectant properties, too, and would therefore have already long since killed any diseases that might have been around.
The bottles were corked, of course. Astrit supposed he could hunt around for a corkscrew, or he could use his knife as a jury-rigged substitute. The knife came out of his pocket. It took him a few tries to figure out how to use it to prize the cork out of the bottle, but eventually it came out and he dropped it on the floor.
The wine had a heavy, thick flavor that felt strange on his tongue. He could feel, as much as taste, the sharp bite of the alcohol. This he observed in a rather detached manner. What he cared about more at this point was that it was wet and had some kind of substance, which meant that he at least wouldn't die of hunger or thirst. The sudden large increase in the dizzy buzz in his head was just a bonus, one that at least muted the constant drone of fear that he always felt when he thought he was in reach of the Manor, ever since his death match.