Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Site Write Entry #6: Warlocks

Prompt: May 12, 2012 - Warlocks. Your character comes across one being very obvious and stupid with his magic. What do you do? Do you walk away and pretend it wasn't happening or do you say something, perhaps do anything, to stop and/or encourage it?
(Warning: Graphic violence.)
. . . . ."Ooo, girls, lookit that one! Ent he a fine figure?" Giggling, Hettie nudged her elbow into Ilva's side, hitting the steel reinforcement of her pale blue corset. Behind Hettie, Rowena and Myrtle were trying to crawl up onto the other girls' shoulders just so they could shove their heads down and see through the horizontal crack in the wall the girls of Miss Rivanna Treelily's establishment used to spy on the guests in the lobby.
. . . . ."Let me see," hissed Myrtle, climbing Hettie like a tree. Then again, Hettie was one of those stout, fine-figured ladies with curves like an oak tree - that is to say, not many of them. She was sturdy, healthy for her profession, and easy enough for a waif like Myrtle to climb. Hettie grunted as a knee pressed into one of her kidneys and she ducked so that the girl climbing on her could get a gander at the man in the lobby.
. . . . .And what a fine figure he was. The man was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dark hair cropped close to his well-formed head and covered by a slim top hat with not even a hint of rakish tilt. His face was elegant and refined, not quite as fey as one of them high elves, but clearly the face of gentry. As he handed his greatcoat to the boy who lounged around the lobby expressly for that purpose, a dark purple silk waistcoat over a trim, fit torso covered in a white silk dress shirt was revealed. Myrtle sighed wistfully and Hettie shoved her out of the way so she could get another look.
. . . . ."Light, I hope 'e picks me," Rowena whispered, fanning her cheeks - which had gone a pink visible even under her thick makeup.
. . . . ."Pff, he's probably just here t' collect protection coins," Ilva mused, though she wasn't immune to the fancy man's charm either if her own pink cheeks were a hint.
. . . . .Miss Treelily came into the lobby and had a discussion with the man; the girls never could hear those, and couldn't hear this one either. But when she came into the side room and barked, "Ladies! Line 'em up!" she was more than audible. Like soldiers in a military drill, the girls fell into formation, each displaying a length of stocking-clad leg or a forward-bend for cleavage as her best assets required. The handsome fella came in the room and looked over the girls. It struck Ilva that brown eyes were usually warm...except on this man. His smile was genial, but his eyes were cold. She shivered and was oddly grateful when he crooked a finger at Hettie, who squealed girlishy and skipped off after him.


. . . . .Miss Treelily always shut the place down right around two bells past midnight. That was when Ilva patted dear old Mister Baxter on his middle-aged hand and led him to the door. Arching her back for a moment after she shut the door behind her regular, she groaned happily when her vertebrae popped in short succession at the small of her back. Light, but Baxter liked some odd things... Never got handsy, just liked to watch her do tumbles and acrobatics. It always left her with a right awful crick in her back. Maybe when she got back to their room, Hettie would be a dear and rub her back for her.
. . . . .But the room she shared with Hettie was empty. Frowning, Ilva pulled her linen bathrobe off the wall hook and wrapped herself in it, then went back into the main house to see if perhaps Hettie was still busy with that fancy man.
. . . . .The door was the first give-away. Instead of the door knob turning, it spun idly as if the mechanism had been broken. One good thump to the doorjamb had it free and she pushed the door open. It squelched.
. . . . .In the center of the room was something that used to be a working lady of the night, something that used to laugh and breathe and stand up and offer back rubs and smile. Now... Now it was merely... Ropy strings, glistening dark red, were arranged in a circle around a heap of raw meat. Parts of bone stuck out at odd, incomprehensible angles which no longer had any relevance to how a body was put together, many of the visible ends chewed flat by something serrated which left grooves in the finality of termination. One particularly broad expanse of raw muscle was almost recognizable as a torso - or at least, the inside of one. Outside the circle of innards, a circle had been drawn in more dark red, and horrifying runes she couldn't understand even if she could read were patterned regularly around it. Somehow overwhelming what should have been the smell of charnel house was the smell of brimstone. The fancy man was nowhere to be seen.
. . . . .Ilva's scream brought the entire house running, as well as two night watchmen four blocks away.


. . . . .Warlockery, they said it was. Dark magics meant to mutilate human souls and make contracts with demons. The fancy man was caught, arrested, tried, and convicted. He was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the city prison for killing one girl - but rumor held he was responsible for ten more. The rumor seemed proven when the killings stopped after he was locked away. It wasn't until after she saw him led away in chains that Ilva felt she could sleep again.
. . . . .The riots in Gilneas when the curse broke out, naturally, ended up destroying the security of the prison. What prisoners weren't eaten by feral worgen or killed each other escaped. After the riots, she hoped - she prayed to the Light - that he'd been eaten by a feral monster. It would only be just.
. . . . .Last Tuesday, Ilva smeared violet pigment over her skin, glued the purple feathers to the tips of her ears, put on her green robes, picked up a basket of flowers, and headed to Cathedral Square to hand them out for free. She liked the smiles she got for her efforts. And the gossip. The gossip never hurt.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for a pretty lady?" She bounded up to a draenei female with a sunny smile and flower outstretched. A smile and a murmured blessing was her thanks.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for your lady, good sir?" She turned and bounded up to a well-dressed man in a dark purple waistcoat over a white shirt. His dark brown hair brushed his collarbone, but looked neatly kept. There was no return smile. He didn't even reach for the offered flower. Just a flat, disapproving stare from those cold brown eyes.
. . . . .Ilva bolted. She ran like the rabbit Norm sometimes nicknamed her. As she ran to ground, she prayed the odd disguise was enough, that he'd never paid enough attention to the rest of the girls in the house, that for the love of all that was holy, she would never, ever run across a warlock again.

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