Aggeragua
07-03-2007, 02:02 PM
This is a little side project I'm working on, not sure if I'll go too far with it, but I've been playing with it, and I find it quite entertaining to write. It does, however, display my weird and, somewhat, dark sense of humor (yes, I know it is, so I freely admit it). With that said, read on, if you wish.
- - - - - - - - - -
The muggy night air of the marsh didn’t help the smell. The fresh scent of blood had long gone stale, and only an unappetizing stench of the dried stuff lingered. I caught a glimpse of a fly rocketing towards its target, the carcass at my feet. I wish I hadn’t picked such a close spot to the body. There was some gore on my left boot, and I had just polished it the morning before. I reached under my tabard and rummaged around for a cheroot that I had half-smoked that day before lunch, and a match. The leather pouch I kept there kept getting in the way of my searching hand.
The captain’s brunette hair fell down into her face again, and she, irritated, brushed it aside, smearing some blood into the smooth strands that would later cake to make a most unattractive headpiece. Her eyes were a hazel color, but were hard and cold, so very unlike brown eyes. A shame, really. I brought the smoking cheroot to my lips and sucked lightly. The cold eyes shot up at me and glared. “Put it away, Kems. You know the rules.”
I sighed, and snubbed out the cheroot. “You know how these cases make me feel. The cheroot’s the only thing that keeps the eels out of my belly, it is.” It was a line and motion that I had practiced many times before. It came out perfectly. Actually, I just liked cheroots.
The captain, whose name, Carmyle, which is an ugly name, shook her head. She stuck out one of her gloved hands. “Give me the light, though. I need to look at the nasty details.”
We were on the ramparts of the north wall that faced the marsh’s tree line across the moat. I could see the moon reflect off the waves that gently lapped the shore. The canals would be teeming with all manner of carnivorous creatures, seething with scales, suction cups, and sword teeth. I fidgeted in a nervous manner as Captain Carmyle went over all the details of the body. It was the body of one of the night watch. The tabard had been torn off, and the breastplate pried off to reveal a most unsettling mess. She shook her head, and ground her teeth. “Just like the one last month, Kems. Place is a mess. Guts hanging everywhere, knife marks all over.” She spat a long stream of yellowish scum over the wall, and wiped her forearm across her nose as she stood up. “Get the Provost to get a few good men to clean him up for the service. Did you know him?”
I leaned over to look at the corpse’s face, and Captain Carmyle bent down to give me some light. There was a big blotch on the bloke’s neck. I straightened up and grunted. “Looks like Borneston, but I’m not sure. How’s that malady of yours? We should get you some hot tea before you catch your death.” I shook my head. “Isn’t right to have a sick ‘un out here doing the dirty work. Your immune system weakens, see, so these flies buzzin’ around, they could…”
Captain Carmyle stopped me with an annoyed wave of the hand. “Skip the sermon, Kems. The damn thing will clear up in a few days. Just do as I ask, will you? I’ll get one of the other night watchers to make sure the stiff isn’t disturbed too much while we’re gone. And get me some of that hot tea, too. Bring it to my office.” She spun on the heel of her boot and skulked off across the wall, snorting and sending another poisonous projectile across the sky. I stayed for a few moments, looking down at the obscure blur that was a bloody dead man. Then I leaned down and went through the fellow’s pockets. I found a few silvers, and one of those nifty thumb rings for pulling back the string of a bow easily. I pocketed the lot, trundled down the stairs, and walked over to the Provost’s quarters. It was still well before dawn, but the poor bloke would have to do the duty, just like I did mine.
I roused the man, a red faced lieutenant named Fitzsimmons who always had a runny nose because he sniffed vision dust when he thought no one was looking, and he mumbled as he swung his bloated, naked body out of his bed. “They always have to die at night, you know? Always at night, when I’m dreaming about some luscious lovely and having a good time. Hand me those trousers, that’s a good fellow. How’d you discover the sorry blighter at this time, anyway?”
I respectably held my giggles as Fitzsimmons battled with the skin tight pants legs. “One of the other night watchers went over to ask the fellow for a light, sir. Found a right mess instead. Shameful business, isn’t it, sir?” I sniffed dramatically.
Fitzsimmons scowled at me, then waddled over to a bureau and picked up a black leather girdle that he negotiated around his planet-like belly. “See, if the stupid night watcher didn’t smoke, he wouldn’t need to go over and ask for a light for his damn cheroot, and this work would be left off until after dawn when there was light out. Thus, I’d be in a much better mood. Dreadful thing, smoking. Bad for the guts, don’t you know. Don’t suppose you smoke, Kemsy? Ain’t a healthy thing.”
I scoffed, tossing my lovely head back a right bit. “Me, sir? No sir. Never touch the stuff. Kills you right out, sir.”
Fitzsimmons nodded his approval and pulled on a blue linen shirt. “Good man, it’s a relief having such sane men such as yourselves in the garrison. Seems like there aren’t any sane people around this place. It’s the marsh heat, you know. Fretfully bad for your health. Worse than cheroots! Damnation, I have to get that mess cleaned up, now, don’t I? You know Barnaby, Kemsy? Frightfully mad, so he is. He likes to light up a cheroot, then place the bit with the flame inside his mouth and blows out instead of in. Says it’s a right healthy thing to do. Madness! Balderdash, it is, pure poppycock!” He pushed past me, sweating profusely from the hot night’s air that had invaded his cool underground quarters.
I called after him. “Mind if I use your stove, sir? Just for a moment.” He waved his approval. I stepped over to the small wood stove, and shoveled some of the brittle wood into its belly before lighting the thing up and placing a kettle on one of the hot plates. As the water boiled, I reached under my tabard and made sure the leather pouch I was carrying was still there. Soggy, but present. I tossed some leaves into a mug on a plaster sideboard with a cracked surface and a termite dancing upon its top, then poured some of the water from the kettle into it, before setting off for the Captain’s quarters. I didn’t bother to douse the stove.
Captain Carmyle’s quarters were two flights of stairs above Fitzsimmons’ place in the barracks. I pushed her door open to the sight of her at her desk, brushing the caked blood out of her hair. She pointed to her desk, a wee little plank piled perilously high with papers and folders and whatnot. I crafted a small alcove from the mess, and put the steaming mug down gingerly. “Any ideas on what happened back there, captain?”
Captain Carmyle threw the brush into a bin in the corner of her room and grunted as she unbuckled her stiff leather gauntlets. “Well, Kems, it was probably the same twisted cretin who did it to Washerby last month. Everything’s the same, the garroted throat, the carving display in his digestive system. As for who did it, it could be anyone. One of the lumberjacks, another night watcher, a sailor, those fairy tailors…blimey, I don’t know. We’ll probably never figure out because the whole damn thing, contrary to its appearance, is clean, Kems, clean of evidence. I’ll look again in the morning when there’s proper lighting, but we won’t find any leads.
“Besides,” she said as she sat picked up the mug and carried it to the bed upon which she sat her bottom, “there are enough nut cases in this town for it to be literally anyone. Like Staten, he’s a maniacal sort. Does everything with his left hand, and doesn’t even try to learn to write with his write or anything. And Xoser, with those absurd superstitions. And…well, damnation, you know what I’m getting at.”
“I didn’t know the tailors were fairies,” I said.
She stared up at me from the bed. “What? Isn’t it obvious? They’re flippin’ fairies. They carry their tools around in a big sack attached to their belt so that it hands over their bottoms. Know what they call them? Bum pouches. They’re flippin’ fairies, Kems, almost as disgusting as, gnomes, or elves.” She spat at the word, the rubbed the spittle around the floor with the toe of her boot, as if to squelch the particles into nonexistence.
“Then I shall be sure not to associate with the tailors,” I lied. Actually, one of the tailors, Castigan, was a real reasonable sort of fellow who was a smashing cards player. “Fairies aren’t good ‘uns, captain, won’t be anywhere near them.”
She nodded in approval. “Good to have sane fellows like you around, Kems. Now go get some sleep. And stay away from the archers’ wing. They’re having some sort of party and you’ll probably be shot to bits if you try to go near them. You know how archers are.”
I stammered a bit. “But captain, I live in the archers’ wing.”
She stood up and pushed me out the door. “That won’t do, then. I don’t want a valuable fellow like you getting shot to bits. Sleep in Lieutenant Dawes’ room. Say its captain’s orders. He’ll leave quietly and kick Corporal Tarrant out of his room anyway. Go!” And with that, she shoved me out into the hallway and slammed the door shut, waking everyone this side of Dustwallow. And so, I strode down the hall to Lieutenant Dawes’ room, patting the soggy leather pouch under my tabard. It had a kidney and a chunk of still warm pectoral flesh inside it. Sure that it was there, I picked up the pace and whistled contentedly.
It’s a right mess of a world I live in, and it suits me just fine. I’m Sergeant Reza "Kems" Kemestari, a decent fellow with a clean shaven jaw, the only sane one about, and a cannibal.
- - - - - - - - - -
The muggy night air of the marsh didn’t help the smell. The fresh scent of blood had long gone stale, and only an unappetizing stench of the dried stuff lingered. I caught a glimpse of a fly rocketing towards its target, the carcass at my feet. I wish I hadn’t picked such a close spot to the body. There was some gore on my left boot, and I had just polished it the morning before. I reached under my tabard and rummaged around for a cheroot that I had half-smoked that day before lunch, and a match. The leather pouch I kept there kept getting in the way of my searching hand.
The captain’s brunette hair fell down into her face again, and she, irritated, brushed it aside, smearing some blood into the smooth strands that would later cake to make a most unattractive headpiece. Her eyes were a hazel color, but were hard and cold, so very unlike brown eyes. A shame, really. I brought the smoking cheroot to my lips and sucked lightly. The cold eyes shot up at me and glared. “Put it away, Kems. You know the rules.”
I sighed, and snubbed out the cheroot. “You know how these cases make me feel. The cheroot’s the only thing that keeps the eels out of my belly, it is.” It was a line and motion that I had practiced many times before. It came out perfectly. Actually, I just liked cheroots.
The captain, whose name, Carmyle, which is an ugly name, shook her head. She stuck out one of her gloved hands. “Give me the light, though. I need to look at the nasty details.”
We were on the ramparts of the north wall that faced the marsh’s tree line across the moat. I could see the moon reflect off the waves that gently lapped the shore. The canals would be teeming with all manner of carnivorous creatures, seething with scales, suction cups, and sword teeth. I fidgeted in a nervous manner as Captain Carmyle went over all the details of the body. It was the body of one of the night watch. The tabard had been torn off, and the breastplate pried off to reveal a most unsettling mess. She shook her head, and ground her teeth. “Just like the one last month, Kems. Place is a mess. Guts hanging everywhere, knife marks all over.” She spat a long stream of yellowish scum over the wall, and wiped her forearm across her nose as she stood up. “Get the Provost to get a few good men to clean him up for the service. Did you know him?”
I leaned over to look at the corpse’s face, and Captain Carmyle bent down to give me some light. There was a big blotch on the bloke’s neck. I straightened up and grunted. “Looks like Borneston, but I’m not sure. How’s that malady of yours? We should get you some hot tea before you catch your death.” I shook my head. “Isn’t right to have a sick ‘un out here doing the dirty work. Your immune system weakens, see, so these flies buzzin’ around, they could…”
Captain Carmyle stopped me with an annoyed wave of the hand. “Skip the sermon, Kems. The damn thing will clear up in a few days. Just do as I ask, will you? I’ll get one of the other night watchers to make sure the stiff isn’t disturbed too much while we’re gone. And get me some of that hot tea, too. Bring it to my office.” She spun on the heel of her boot and skulked off across the wall, snorting and sending another poisonous projectile across the sky. I stayed for a few moments, looking down at the obscure blur that was a bloody dead man. Then I leaned down and went through the fellow’s pockets. I found a few silvers, and one of those nifty thumb rings for pulling back the string of a bow easily. I pocketed the lot, trundled down the stairs, and walked over to the Provost’s quarters. It was still well before dawn, but the poor bloke would have to do the duty, just like I did mine.
I roused the man, a red faced lieutenant named Fitzsimmons who always had a runny nose because he sniffed vision dust when he thought no one was looking, and he mumbled as he swung his bloated, naked body out of his bed. “They always have to die at night, you know? Always at night, when I’m dreaming about some luscious lovely and having a good time. Hand me those trousers, that’s a good fellow. How’d you discover the sorry blighter at this time, anyway?”
I respectably held my giggles as Fitzsimmons battled with the skin tight pants legs. “One of the other night watchers went over to ask the fellow for a light, sir. Found a right mess instead. Shameful business, isn’t it, sir?” I sniffed dramatically.
Fitzsimmons scowled at me, then waddled over to a bureau and picked up a black leather girdle that he negotiated around his planet-like belly. “See, if the stupid night watcher didn’t smoke, he wouldn’t need to go over and ask for a light for his damn cheroot, and this work would be left off until after dawn when there was light out. Thus, I’d be in a much better mood. Dreadful thing, smoking. Bad for the guts, don’t you know. Don’t suppose you smoke, Kemsy? Ain’t a healthy thing.”
I scoffed, tossing my lovely head back a right bit. “Me, sir? No sir. Never touch the stuff. Kills you right out, sir.”
Fitzsimmons nodded his approval and pulled on a blue linen shirt. “Good man, it’s a relief having such sane men such as yourselves in the garrison. Seems like there aren’t any sane people around this place. It’s the marsh heat, you know. Fretfully bad for your health. Worse than cheroots! Damnation, I have to get that mess cleaned up, now, don’t I? You know Barnaby, Kemsy? Frightfully mad, so he is. He likes to light up a cheroot, then place the bit with the flame inside his mouth and blows out instead of in. Says it’s a right healthy thing to do. Madness! Balderdash, it is, pure poppycock!” He pushed past me, sweating profusely from the hot night’s air that had invaded his cool underground quarters.
I called after him. “Mind if I use your stove, sir? Just for a moment.” He waved his approval. I stepped over to the small wood stove, and shoveled some of the brittle wood into its belly before lighting the thing up and placing a kettle on one of the hot plates. As the water boiled, I reached under my tabard and made sure the leather pouch I was carrying was still there. Soggy, but present. I tossed some leaves into a mug on a plaster sideboard with a cracked surface and a termite dancing upon its top, then poured some of the water from the kettle into it, before setting off for the Captain’s quarters. I didn’t bother to douse the stove.
Captain Carmyle’s quarters were two flights of stairs above Fitzsimmons’ place in the barracks. I pushed her door open to the sight of her at her desk, brushing the caked blood out of her hair. She pointed to her desk, a wee little plank piled perilously high with papers and folders and whatnot. I crafted a small alcove from the mess, and put the steaming mug down gingerly. “Any ideas on what happened back there, captain?”
Captain Carmyle threw the brush into a bin in the corner of her room and grunted as she unbuckled her stiff leather gauntlets. “Well, Kems, it was probably the same twisted cretin who did it to Washerby last month. Everything’s the same, the garroted throat, the carving display in his digestive system. As for who did it, it could be anyone. One of the lumberjacks, another night watcher, a sailor, those fairy tailors…blimey, I don’t know. We’ll probably never figure out because the whole damn thing, contrary to its appearance, is clean, Kems, clean of evidence. I’ll look again in the morning when there’s proper lighting, but we won’t find any leads.
“Besides,” she said as she sat picked up the mug and carried it to the bed upon which she sat her bottom, “there are enough nut cases in this town for it to be literally anyone. Like Staten, he’s a maniacal sort. Does everything with his left hand, and doesn’t even try to learn to write with his write or anything. And Xoser, with those absurd superstitions. And…well, damnation, you know what I’m getting at.”
“I didn’t know the tailors were fairies,” I said.
She stared up at me from the bed. “What? Isn’t it obvious? They’re flippin’ fairies. They carry their tools around in a big sack attached to their belt so that it hands over their bottoms. Know what they call them? Bum pouches. They’re flippin’ fairies, Kems, almost as disgusting as, gnomes, or elves.” She spat at the word, the rubbed the spittle around the floor with the toe of her boot, as if to squelch the particles into nonexistence.
“Then I shall be sure not to associate with the tailors,” I lied. Actually, one of the tailors, Castigan, was a real reasonable sort of fellow who was a smashing cards player. “Fairies aren’t good ‘uns, captain, won’t be anywhere near them.”
She nodded in approval. “Good to have sane fellows like you around, Kems. Now go get some sleep. And stay away from the archers’ wing. They’re having some sort of party and you’ll probably be shot to bits if you try to go near them. You know how archers are.”
I stammered a bit. “But captain, I live in the archers’ wing.”
She stood up and pushed me out the door. “That won’t do, then. I don’t want a valuable fellow like you getting shot to bits. Sleep in Lieutenant Dawes’ room. Say its captain’s orders. He’ll leave quietly and kick Corporal Tarrant out of his room anyway. Go!” And with that, she shoved me out into the hallway and slammed the door shut, waking everyone this side of Dustwallow. And so, I strode down the hall to Lieutenant Dawes’ room, patting the soggy leather pouch under my tabard. It had a kidney and a chunk of still warm pectoral flesh inside it. Sure that it was there, I picked up the pace and whistled contentedly.
It’s a right mess of a world I live in, and it suits me just fine. I’m Sergeant Reza "Kems" Kemestari, a decent fellow with a clean shaven jaw, the only sane one about, and a cannibal.