Euotioa: Fallen Lands Draft Chapter 9

Euotioa: Fallen Lands

Draft Chapter 9

         Atop Castle Stonewell, Penelope had finally found a favorable position to enjoy the party from. It was between the open slabs of concrete guarding the wall walks, isolated and free to sit however she liked. A play was being performed in the center of the courtyard and Penelope was lazily paying attention to it while she spied on everyone else. "Alright then, Boorish," said the character Bumsley below. "Remember the three magic words before you kill the rabbit. You know what they are?" Boorish was played by a large, gawking man, obviously made out to be the stupider of the two Bumm Brothers. "UH HUH!" Said Boorish, shaking his head so hard that the rifle he was holding was now being aimed in every direction. The crowd and Penelope laughed as Bumsley clumsily adjusted Boorish's rifle at his intended target, a man in a bunny costume tied to a pole. "OK! NAME!" Boorish took aim at the bunny. The Bunny responded, "Oh, hello I'm Damion. And you sir?" The crowd took up laughter again as Boorish gave a worried look at his brother, who was himself scowling. "DEADLY!" "Deadly, what's deadly sir?" "FIRE!" "Oh heavens, a fire, where?!" Boorish fired just as the Bunny stepped aside, searching for the fire. The crowd gasped at the rifle's crack, met with surprise, then hilarity. Penelope smiled as the daft Boorish went to put out the fire left on the Bunny's tail. She'd seen plenty of the Bumm Brother's tales performed on street corners. Each one of them still proved to be classical comedy genius.
         Penelope's heart skipped as she suddenly fell a good foot off the tower. Her hands flung for a grip, anywhere she could grab. She was fastened in the air, however. "Quite the view from up here. An unauthorized view, but a good one." Penelope turned her head and saw a white coat figure holding her arm as the other half of her body hung off the side. The figure grabbed her further; Penelope graciously helped herself to more footing, but the figure suddenly stopped, ready to push her off again. "There's plenty of company in Queen Hageburn's castle tonight," it spoke again, in a much less auspicious tone. "Plenty of company that could want to see her dead. And they come in all shapes and sizes. So what are you, kid? Pirate, the Revisionists you're calling yourselves? Maybe part of Dyan's Rouge's, hmm? I haven't killed one of those in a while. You lot still mad over the land taxes?" Penelope pushed with her lower back, but the figure was strong. She had no hope of toppling back over the ledge. Still she gritted her teeth and grabbed the stone edges with her other hands. The figure wrapped it's arms around her neck and skull, obtaining the upper hand. "Last chance, girl. Who are you?" "I'm a guest!" Penelope grunted and shifted her foot. "I'm Penelope, Penelope Donald, I swear!"
         The pressure against her soon wound down. "Hehehe. Hahaehhaa!" The guard was in hysterics, leaning against the walls. Penelope stepped onto solid ground assessing her situation; it wasn't actually a guard, judging by the medals and gold rivets held along the uniform. Still, it was a large woman in uniform, adorned in the Royals outfit. A menacing axe was sheathed along her hips, where most higher ranked officials held ordinary swords. It was all very frightening, made confusing by the woman's laughter. The point had now come where Penelope found it annoying. "What's so fucking funny?" she spouted. The Royals woman straightened up, her chest still rising and falling in giggles. "Penelope Donald, I knew it! The Dwarf said you'd fight but I thought all this time you'd cuddle up and scream like a kitten! Thank the gods you didn't take up after your Uncle, there's enough of his like in the world." If Penelope wore the shock on her face any better she'd make a marvelous "Drunk Countess" for the second act setting up down below. "You know Ansel? And Uncle Dom?" "Yup, just got introduced to Ansel. He's a nice Dwarf as they go. Ahh, but your Uncle..." The woman looked on the verge of hysterical tears, harshly held back by a smile. "I haven't seen him in years. And I'd be a caught catfish if this Northern sun hasn't made him look paler. Like the feathers on a chicken's ass!" Penelope still looked and felt confused. The woman obliged her curiosity. "You don't know who I am? I'm Crissy!"

The scare Chrissy had given Penelope was soon forgotten and forgiven. They sat against the wall edges, talking about their relationship's with Dominique Donald. "...so when the first mate comes up to your Uncle Dom," said Crissy, "he says, 'hey, there's gunpowder in all the booze! Why's there gunpowder in the booze?' And your Uncle pulls out his pistol and points it at the man's stomach and he says, 'Aye, aye, sir, there is. And if you don't stop drinking on duty we'll load you on the decks and fire you off as a cannon ball!'" Penelope laughed, the most genuine, sincerest laughter she had all night. "That wasn't Uncle Dom, no way." "Oh yes it was, I was there! Oh, but he said it as sheepish as a lamb! No no, as sheepish as a chicken! HA!" Crissy pulled a flask from her coat pocket and took a quick swig. "Hope you'll pardon me dearie," she said in a fancy voice that didn't suit her. "Needed a swig of something strong. The drinks here aren't as 'tenacioussome' enough for me." Another giggle was sent her way by Penelope. She was sure anyone of the Higher classes would scold this Royals officer and strip her of her titles for using such mockery of their prestigious languages. Crissy didn't seem like she gave half a damn. Perhaps that was why Penelope took such a liking to her.
         Chrissy was large, in height and general size. She had bright blonde hair ending quickly around her ears. Judging by her voice and appearance she was almost boyish looking. Which gave way to a question Penelope felt little pity asking of her. "Crissy, isn't it tight in that outfit you're wearing?" "Tight, what do you mean? You speaking some new 'kid language' I don't know." Penelope smiled and pointed at her breasts. "Ah, not really. Your boobs learn to grow in these uniforms, I swear. Dom have you dress in those frilly outfits a lot?" "No, just on birthdays and festive days, a couple times when we see family, I guess." Chrissy offered the flask to Penelope; she politely declined. "Penny I've seen plenty of boobs round the world. I have, don't go about laughing, this is serious, so's your play parts! You find that there's women built to be warriors and women who are built for...well, everything else. Nothing wrong with either, just know that your body's are like clay. How long do you practice with the Dwarf?" "Well we usually start swordplay an hour after daybreak. Then we practice footwork for another hour and then real fighting for another two hours." Penelope ended the lie there; all in all she did half of those for about half that length. Chrissy still didn't seem too impressed. "First off, you need conditioning. You need to mold those arms while you're still young, lift weight, lift fucking wagons if you got em'! What else?" Crissy now leaned in, pulling up Penelope's dress. "Hey, what are you-" Chrissy wore a large grin. "Dom tell you I like girls? Don't worry though, you're a little too young for my taste, too skinny too. Which brings me to this." She flicked Penelope's stomach fat and pulled the fabric back in place. "Crunches kid, crunches and running! Tell Dom to get some meat if he can nab some! Just a little protein afterwards does wonders! No tummy, bigger everything else. Big calves, arms, boobs and butt..." "Ok, I got it thank you." "...speaking of, shoulders could use some work..." "Thank you, I got it!"

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The Figure's journey was nearing it's end-he still moved at his deliberate, steadied pace as in the beginning. Only now, he became an object of remarked interest in the Northern towns. Here the people paraded the streets in celebration during the Queen's party, which paid tribute to the Royal's soldiers who fought so hard to enlighten the wild lands for humanity and protected them from nature's harsh struggles. And here, skulking the streets in solitude, was this hooded figure, dragging about as if he had the plague. He caught eyeballs in his direction and few said a passing, "Hello" as he walked by. But nothing else. No one gave him streamers to toss or a sample of dried apples with cinnamon to taste. The children crossed the streets as he passed, actually cognizant of how dangerously far they had strayed from their mothers. The Figure trudged on, till he finally met the front gates of Castle Stonewell.

The Ticketmaster had his eyes in his book, now thankfully gifted soft night silence as the entering crowds were taken care of or turned away. He'd planned on finishing his book, The Study of Sea Patterns by Horace Beltiki before the first guests started departing. His college demanded a full essay relating to the recent troubling findings of monthly temperature decreases, in full ten pages, with only a week left from the turn in date. So, quite understandably, he was upset to find another guest wandering to the front gate so late after the kickoff of the party.
The Figure walked forward, with no feelings towards the boys schedules. Only thoughts of his mission raced around what one could call his mind. "Sir, you ticket please," the Ticketmaster called annoyed. The Figure walked past the booth jutting forward onto the gate. He pulled and tugged at the fence, shaking it with all his might. "Hey, sir-SIR!" The Figure tugged harder, grunting and throwing his head backward as if he could lift the gates off the ground. The Ticketmaster rushed out the booth, done with decency. "Hey what the festering fuck are you doing?! Sir, hands off the gate! Off!" The Figure still tugged and when the Ticketmaster moved to pry his hands off, he still tugged away. The man had enough of this wandering drunk or crazy Lower. He rushed off into the booth where among the furnace accommodation was a fire poker. It was utilized rarely to chase off rodents and pests who would defile the gates with defecation. The Ticketmaster intended to group this crazy man among those pests.
"All right you stupid son of a bitch...off!" The man whacked at his hands drawing light pained grunts from the Figure. Still, he stayed on the gates. Again, he came closer and whacked. The Figure stopped shaking momentarily; the two looked at his arm, which the poker had now become lodged within along the hooked edge. The Figure seemed the least bit concerned with the wound-it bled as normally as any man's would. Instead, his angered eyes stared into the Ticketmaster's-he had grown afraid of this monster at his steps.
The Figure pulled his arm back and the man slammed against his own gate. He was knocked unconscious. The Figure bent down, brandishing the man's keys and poker through the gate's cracks. The Figure's mind only functioned in service of the mission; still, he had no tactical advantage of stabbing the man's throat as he passed the gate. Perhaps he'd justify the murder on the grounds that he might come to, summoning the guards and jeopardizing the mission. Pleasure still seemed to be the primary motive; he sunk the poker in slowly through the skin, watching the young man convulse as his brain tried desperatley to wake him through the trauma. Then the figure walked to Caste Stonewell, headset on completing his objective once more.