Author Topic: My Magnum Opus plz red  (Read 5281 times)

Haerthorne

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My Magnum Opus plz red
« Topic Start: October 09, 2011, 03:34:06 PM »
I just decided to share this all with you. Its just a one off, thirty minute piece of writing and I have a weeks worth of correspondance to catch up on and oh god why does my ear hurt so much why can't alcohol save me?


It hurt. There was no other way to sufficiently describe how much everything was suffused with this malificient, clawing, throbbing, sweaty pain pulsating across his skin, his muscle, his bones. And his skull! What kind of daimon was locked up in the tiny cage of his mind that could press against the walls with such relentless, bull-headed fury? Throughout the day he had tried cooling himself off until he was forced to drag his weak body over to a bucket of cold water to dunk his head in it. Eventually all he had left was sleep. Even that was running in short supply now though.

"Gods, if you ever decide to break free do it now and relieve this blasted, miserable, gum crunching pain...", Rickhart moaned piteously from the white downy confines of his bed.

The King flinched away from the world as the banging in his head reached a volume that screamed 'kill me now you miserable bastard!'. He imagined the daimon inside was scratching through the viscous layer of membrane to the skull itself with his claws, dragging it along with a sound like a rusty iron nail against a sheet of metal, banging it with his spare hand all the while. The banging continued for a while.

It took a few seconds (an eternity) for him to realise it was the door and not some insane little imp inside the room.

He refused to answer, as that might cause more harm than good. It didn't help as the door was opened anyway by a particularly bathycolpian chambermaid, with no obvious regard for his the health of the poor king, and she was followed in by the insultingly thoracical oaf of a guard who was oblivious of how obvious in the fact he was more interested in the chambermaid than in his poor king. (It should be noted that perhaps they weren't all that bad, but the king becomes particularly venomous when ill). Rickhart decided to glare at them all the while they were in the room. The chambermaid changed his pot under his bed and put a new (colder) bucket of water beside it, smiling coquettishly. The guard stared idiotically back at the King and put a letter down on the desk in the corner. The two promptly left once it was clear the king wasn't going to utter a single word of thanks or dismissal to either of them. 'So much for the grace and intellect of a  philosopher king', they may have thought.

By this stage Rickhart just didn't care anymore, because his gaze had fallen across something else. For the first time in days it occured to him how high the pile of letters in the corner had become during his sickness. There were hundreds of them. They were falling off their neatly stacked piles into less neatly stacked piles spready horizontally, diagonally and vertically across the floor, a forest of words and thought shedding their pointlessly communicitave and demanding leaves to the ground. The sight of them wasn't new. The realisation he'd have to go through them all was.

His eyes bulged with the crescendo of pain that had been building up all throughout this little episode. The expletive the exalted Third King of Luria Nova screamed at this point cannot be printed in legitimate literature.
Returning player, player of the Haerthorne family, marketing team member, and prospective fixer-upper-er of the wiki.