A long one... and do you think I'm gonna LJ cut? NO!
I am a monster. I am a musician. I am a lover, and I am a killer. I've been the lord of millions, and a pauper on the streets. There is little to nothing that I've been found wanting for, yet I hunger for so much more. I've met some of the most noble people ever to go without a title, and some of the most dispicable ones to claim ties to nobility. I've been through moments of agony more intense than any felt before, and moments later felt a tenderness so profound as to melt the heart of the Black Tower's jailers.
I am Cyric, and this is my story.
Footsteps echo down the hallway leading to my study, making a decidedly cacophonous noise I would prefer not to be subject to. Truly, my sanctum is my refuge from the rigors of life, intended to be uninterupted. Of course, intention and reality are often mutually exclusive. I take my eyes from the book in my lap, an original print of Edger Allen Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado", a favorite of mine. As I let my gaze pass to the doorway, she enters, the picture of beauty in these modern times. Her damp crimson tresses hang down about a deliciously curved frame, the gown covering her pale ivory complexion not quite the picture of modesty. But I am in no mood for company, however lovely. She looks upon me, those emerald eyes sparkling with bejewelled adoration as she takes in the view.
I've never ceased to be amazed at how easily the human mind is willing to cast aside the flaws of those around it when infected with the notion of love. Let it be said for the record, by the way, that I am certainly no loveless buffoon, I just believe the original notions are not being held up to the proper regard in these times. But I digress.
She finds me a vision of perfection, though I've done little enough to provide an enticing image. I lounge in one of my more comfortable chairs, garbed in my sleaveless satin evening robe, sporting a spider-web pattern from the shoulder to the floor. My shoulder length hair I've allowed to spill down around my face, providing a sort of blonde frame for my features. My countenance, however, should be one enough to put her off. My normally warm eyes have gone dark for the interruption, and the corners of my lips have turned down ever so slightly in a frown of discontentment. She hesitates at the door, noting easily the displeasure prevelant in my posture, but moves into the study anyway... a brash move that both earns my curiousity, and aggravation.
"M'lord Cyric, forgive my intrusion... There is something I thought you should know..." Her flawless face cannot seem to raise itself to bear the brunt of my scrutiny, as she moves to kneel next to me, gazing down to the book instead of at my face. The silence remains unbroken after her statement, and I can feel her growing more nervous with every passing moment. Eventually, she takes my muted disregard as in indicator to continue, though if the truth were to be known, I had already returned my attention to my book.
"A body has been found, m'lord... in the courtyard. He appears to be a suicide." I can hear the quiver in her voice... a clear indication that she is probably the one who found the body. She is shaken to the core, though she retains her composure for this meeting, not wanting to lose face in front of me. This warms my heart a bit, I'll admit, and I am forced to reconsider my previous cold silence. I reach up slowly, my delicately long fingers brushing aside a few stray strands of hair from her face. She raises her face to look upon me now, finding a warm smile greeting her. A few tears escape the corners of her eyes and make their swift way down her creamy, supple skin as her own lips part in a smile of pure reverence. My reply is short, though my voice remains soft, I daresay even kind.
"Come, love... take me to the body." And with that, I stand and make my way for the door. With one final afterthought, I hold my hand out to my side and mutter a single arcane word, the result of which sends my rapier flying across the room and into my hand. One does not live as long as I have without taking a precaution here or there.
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Minutes later, I'm standing in the courtyard of my manor, looking down at the decidedly large body of what appears to be my steward. The cobblestones about us are rain-slicked, though the storm has abated. I cross my arms over my chest, looking from the body, to the tower above, and back to the body. My brow creases in consternation as I jab his side with my toe.
Returning my gaze to the tower, I note the shattered window... his apparant point of egress. The lady at my side shivers, though I can't tell if it's because of the chill night air, or the ghastly sight before us. Truly, Morgan would have made quite the mess in his exit from this mortal coil, were it not for the recent rain. His emmense form smashed to the cobblestones with enough force to all but shatter his skull, turning his face into a thick red pulp, resembling my dinner from earlier this night more than the man who prepared it, though the blood has since run off toward one of the drains in the courtyard. But all told, something doesn't fit.
With one more gentle touch on her shoulder, I offer my guest another smile before ascending to the tower above. My levitation is slow and graceful... truly, I see no need to hurry. Morgan isn't in any particular rush, after all. I alight myself onto the plush carpeting of the topmost room in the tower, and let my gaze pass over the scene here. Crunching along the broken glass, I move from the window to the bed, shaking my head in irritation. Standing over it, I note the dishevelled sheets, the douvet tossed haphazzardly to the floor. I lean a little closer, taking one of the satin-covered pillows in my hand. I bring it closer to my face, taking in a deep breath, turning several things over in my mind. A moment later, I allow myself a loud, convivial laugh and begin making my way back to the window. Tossing the pillow to the carpet beside me, I dash forward, and dive through the window. The few people gathered below gasp in shock as I smash through the few remaining pieces of the window, and plummet earthward.
A moment later, I land gently on the ground, much to the relief of both my people and my paramour. I stand, glancing about, smelling the air a bit. I can estimate the the storm has been over for roughly one half hour by now, the lady having collected me a few minutes after it ended. I pace around the place, affecting a look of confusion, letting the tension grow all but physical in the long moments, silence only broken by my footsteps.
Finally, she turns to me, placing her face on my chest and weeping openly.
"Why did he do it? Dear, sweet Morgan..." Her words trail off in a sob. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close in a comforting gesture. I wave to he gathered crowd, a dismissive gesture to which the swiftly respond, leaving th elady and I in the company only of each other and the recently deceased.
"The question is not why he did it, dear lady, but why he did it so poorly." My callous words are spoken in a casual tone, almost as though I were chastising my former employee. She looks up at me swiftly, confusion swimming in those verdant green eyes.
"M'lord?"
I smile now, stepping around the body, and begin my analysis of the situation.
"My curiosity was first piqued when I noted a distinct lack of blood around my erstwhile companion. This, naturally, got my suspicions raised. My skepticism was further proven in dear Morgan's bedroom. My steward and bodyguard was not the subject of a tragic suicide, but of a poorly carried-off murder."
She gasps at this, clutching her nightgown to her chest, a look of shock on her face.
"Who would do such a thing?"
My smile turns devious now as I draw Dorian from his sheath, pointing to the body.
"The killer did well to sprinkle some broken glass around the corpse, allowing for the possibility of self-imposed defenestration, though there isn't nearly enough to make up a full window. The rest, however, remains on the carpet in Morgan's bedroom. What does that indicate, treasure?"
Her silence indicates a distinct lack of cognition to these events, so I opt to fill her in.
"Someone broke in first, through that same window. The killer, presumably. However, Morgan was my bodyguard as much as he was my chef, and so such actions should not have caught him off guard... that is, unless he was predisposed with some other committment, yes?" I swing the blade back up to the tower, though my gaze remains on the maiden before me. I take her silence as an indicator to continue. "You see, Morgan was with a woman tonight. That in and of itself is barely short of a miracle. You see, Morgan was once of the monastic orders of Tibet, though gave that up at the behest of whatever spirits or notions guide his august tradition, to serve and protect me. Thus has he been strongly protected against the lures of the flesh. Of course, he was only a man, and certain wiles that can come only from the most beautiful of women will overcome the staunchest of Zen masters." The blade slowly makes its way to point at the damsel in my midst. The jig, as they say, is up.
"No, you cannot be suggesting..." I cut her off with a look almost as sharp as my sword, my expression turning from one of humor to one of disapprobation.
"Your scent on his pillow has betrayed you. Let's see if I get this right... you'll stop me, of course, if I stray. You slipped into his room much earlier this evening, I would bet clothed in little more than a coy smile... How long did he last against your charms, I wonder? But no, he couldn't have lasted too long, for soon you had him bedded, and I would bet considerably exhausted. Did he confess his love to you? I would bet he did, poor naive fool. Probably just before your partner smashed in through the window and charged the bed. He pulled Morgan from beside you..." I turn the body over with one swift kick now, to reveal a rather long piece of glass stuck conveniently between his ribs. "And would you look at this? The murder weapon which could easily have been written off as a part of the fall! One swift stab and the light from my vassal's eyes faded. Did you watch, m'lady? Did you feel satisfaction in knowing that you provided him with the night of his life on the last night of his life?" Her face grows cold at that.
"Add to that the fact that you and your accomplice had to spend several minutes doctoring the crime scene and bedroom to cover your tracks, though I have to say you did a poor job at best. A blind scullery boy could have deduced your involvement. I know you took the time, however, as the storm was not yet over when you killed him, hence why his blood has been washed away. Had you found the body as early as it seemed you would have after hearing the window smash not two doors from your bedroom, you would have rushed to me immediately. That would have been after the storm had abated, if your story were to be believed. And your hair wouldn't be damp from the rain as you..." I take the loop of his money pouch from his belt with the tip of my blade, holding the empty sack in the air. "... filched what few farthings the man carried on hand."
She is quiet now, knowing that, yes, she has been caught. She lets the seconds roll into minutes, considering her predicament. I can all but see her picking her way through the murder, noting the same flaws that should have been obvious to her throughout. It is then that the last piece falls into place.
"It wasn't my..." She starts, but I cut her off again.
"... idea, I know. You're realizing how many flaws there are in this plan. How it easily points every finger at you, and none at your partner. You were set up, my lovely little temptress. Whoever your partner is, you played right into his hands, and now you were to take the fall for the crime as well. Clearly, he cares little for your situation, but you can rest assured that I will find him, to." I hold Dorian up to her again, and I can all but feel the blade shudder in anticipation of the kill. Sometimes, truly, I worry for my dear friend.
"You cannot kill me, Cyric! Please!" She begins pleading. It's amazing how swiftly we'll trade our dignity for life. "I.. I can tell you who he was! Why we did it! There are so many more questions you need the answers to!" Her desperate smile grows, as though she believes she's found an inescapable loophole in the Devil's contract. It is with that same smile she dies, her head cleft from her graceful neck in one swift motion.
"Poor dear... such answers I do not need from your living body... only from your entrapped soul..." With that, I gesture, leaving the language of magic to cause her still-warm corpse to rise, gather it's head, and begin making it's way to my study. Perhaps I'll be able to finish my book before returning to the business at hand.
I am Cyric, and this is my story.
Footsteps echo down the hallway leading to my study, making a decidedly cacophonous noise I would prefer not to be subject to. Truly, my sanctum is my refuge from the rigors of life, intended to be uninterupted. Of course, intention and reality are often mutually exclusive. I take my eyes from the book in my lap, an original print of Edger Allen Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado", a favorite of mine. As I let my gaze pass to the doorway, she enters, the picture of beauty in these modern times. Her damp crimson tresses hang down about a deliciously curved frame, the gown covering her pale ivory complexion not quite the picture of modesty. But I am in no mood for company, however lovely. She looks upon me, those emerald eyes sparkling with bejewelled adoration as she takes in the view.
I've never ceased to be amazed at how easily the human mind is willing to cast aside the flaws of those around it when infected with the notion of love. Let it be said for the record, by the way, that I am certainly no loveless buffoon, I just believe the original notions are not being held up to the proper regard in these times. But I digress.
She finds me a vision of perfection, though I've done little enough to provide an enticing image. I lounge in one of my more comfortable chairs, garbed in my sleaveless satin evening robe, sporting a spider-web pattern from the shoulder to the floor. My shoulder length hair I've allowed to spill down around my face, providing a sort of blonde frame for my features. My countenance, however, should be one enough to put her off. My normally warm eyes have gone dark for the interruption, and the corners of my lips have turned down ever so slightly in a frown of discontentment. She hesitates at the door, noting easily the displeasure prevelant in my posture, but moves into the study anyway... a brash move that both earns my curiousity, and aggravation.
"M'lord Cyric, forgive my intrusion... There is something I thought you should know..." Her flawless face cannot seem to raise itself to bear the brunt of my scrutiny, as she moves to kneel next to me, gazing down to the book instead of at my face. The silence remains unbroken after her statement, and I can feel her growing more nervous with every passing moment. Eventually, she takes my muted disregard as in indicator to continue, though if the truth were to be known, I had already returned my attention to my book.
"A body has been found, m'lord... in the courtyard. He appears to be a suicide." I can hear the quiver in her voice... a clear indication that she is probably the one who found the body. She is shaken to the core, though she retains her composure for this meeting, not wanting to lose face in front of me. This warms my heart a bit, I'll admit, and I am forced to reconsider my previous cold silence. I reach up slowly, my delicately long fingers brushing aside a few stray strands of hair from her face. She raises her face to look upon me now, finding a warm smile greeting her. A few tears escape the corners of her eyes and make their swift way down her creamy, supple skin as her own lips part in a smile of pure reverence. My reply is short, though my voice remains soft, I daresay even kind.
"Come, love... take me to the body." And with that, I stand and make my way for the door. With one final afterthought, I hold my hand out to my side and mutter a single arcane word, the result of which sends my rapier flying across the room and into my hand. One does not live as long as I have without taking a precaution here or there.
------------------------------------
Minutes later, I'm standing in the courtyard of my manor, looking down at the decidedly large body of what appears to be my steward. The cobblestones about us are rain-slicked, though the storm has abated. I cross my arms over my chest, looking from the body, to the tower above, and back to the body. My brow creases in consternation as I jab his side with my toe.
Returning my gaze to the tower, I note the shattered window... his apparant point of egress. The lady at my side shivers, though I can't tell if it's because of the chill night air, or the ghastly sight before us. Truly, Morgan would have made quite the mess in his exit from this mortal coil, were it not for the recent rain. His emmense form smashed to the cobblestones with enough force to all but shatter his skull, turning his face into a thick red pulp, resembling my dinner from earlier this night more than the man who prepared it, though the blood has since run off toward one of the drains in the courtyard. But all told, something doesn't fit.
With one more gentle touch on her shoulder, I offer my guest another smile before ascending to the tower above. My levitation is slow and graceful... truly, I see no need to hurry. Morgan isn't in any particular rush, after all. I alight myself onto the plush carpeting of the topmost room in the tower, and let my gaze pass over the scene here. Crunching along the broken glass, I move from the window to the bed, shaking my head in irritation. Standing over it, I note the dishevelled sheets, the douvet tossed haphazzardly to the floor. I lean a little closer, taking one of the satin-covered pillows in my hand. I bring it closer to my face, taking in a deep breath, turning several things over in my mind. A moment later, I allow myself a loud, convivial laugh and begin making my way back to the window. Tossing the pillow to the carpet beside me, I dash forward, and dive through the window. The few people gathered below gasp in shock as I smash through the few remaining pieces of the window, and plummet earthward.
A moment later, I land gently on the ground, much to the relief of both my people and my paramour. I stand, glancing about, smelling the air a bit. I can estimate the the storm has been over for roughly one half hour by now, the lady having collected me a few minutes after it ended. I pace around the place, affecting a look of confusion, letting the tension grow all but physical in the long moments, silence only broken by my footsteps.
Finally, she turns to me, placing her face on my chest and weeping openly.
"Why did he do it? Dear, sweet Morgan..." Her words trail off in a sob. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close in a comforting gesture. I wave to he gathered crowd, a dismissive gesture to which the swiftly respond, leaving th elady and I in the company only of each other and the recently deceased.
"The question is not why he did it, dear lady, but why he did it so poorly." My callous words are spoken in a casual tone, almost as though I were chastising my former employee. She looks up at me swiftly, confusion swimming in those verdant green eyes.
"M'lord?"
I smile now, stepping around the body, and begin my analysis of the situation.
"My curiosity was first piqued when I noted a distinct lack of blood around my erstwhile companion. This, naturally, got my suspicions raised. My skepticism was further proven in dear Morgan's bedroom. My steward and bodyguard was not the subject of a tragic suicide, but of a poorly carried-off murder."
She gasps at this, clutching her nightgown to her chest, a look of shock on her face.
"Who would do such a thing?"
My smile turns devious now as I draw Dorian from his sheath, pointing to the body.
"The killer did well to sprinkle some broken glass around the corpse, allowing for the possibility of self-imposed defenestration, though there isn't nearly enough to make up a full window. The rest, however, remains on the carpet in Morgan's bedroom. What does that indicate, treasure?"
Her silence indicates a distinct lack of cognition to these events, so I opt to fill her in.
"Someone broke in first, through that same window. The killer, presumably. However, Morgan was my bodyguard as much as he was my chef, and so such actions should not have caught him off guard... that is, unless he was predisposed with some other committment, yes?" I swing the blade back up to the tower, though my gaze remains on the maiden before me. I take her silence as an indicator to continue. "You see, Morgan was with a woman tonight. That in and of itself is barely short of a miracle. You see, Morgan was once of the monastic orders of Tibet, though gave that up at the behest of whatever spirits or notions guide his august tradition, to serve and protect me. Thus has he been strongly protected against the lures of the flesh. Of course, he was only a man, and certain wiles that can come only from the most beautiful of women will overcome the staunchest of Zen masters." The blade slowly makes its way to point at the damsel in my midst. The jig, as they say, is up.
"No, you cannot be suggesting..." I cut her off with a look almost as sharp as my sword, my expression turning from one of humor to one of disapprobation.
"Your scent on his pillow has betrayed you. Let's see if I get this right... you'll stop me, of course, if I stray. You slipped into his room much earlier this evening, I would bet clothed in little more than a coy smile... How long did he last against your charms, I wonder? But no, he couldn't have lasted too long, for soon you had him bedded, and I would bet considerably exhausted. Did he confess his love to you? I would bet he did, poor naive fool. Probably just before your partner smashed in through the window and charged the bed. He pulled Morgan from beside you..." I turn the body over with one swift kick now, to reveal a rather long piece of glass stuck conveniently between his ribs. "And would you look at this? The murder weapon which could easily have been written off as a part of the fall! One swift stab and the light from my vassal's eyes faded. Did you watch, m'lady? Did you feel satisfaction in knowing that you provided him with the night of his life on the last night of his life?" Her face grows cold at that.
"Add to that the fact that you and your accomplice had to spend several minutes doctoring the crime scene and bedroom to cover your tracks, though I have to say you did a poor job at best. A blind scullery boy could have deduced your involvement. I know you took the time, however, as the storm was not yet over when you killed him, hence why his blood has been washed away. Had you found the body as early as it seemed you would have after hearing the window smash not two doors from your bedroom, you would have rushed to me immediately. That would have been after the storm had abated, if your story were to be believed. And your hair wouldn't be damp from the rain as you..." I take the loop of his money pouch from his belt with the tip of my blade, holding the empty sack in the air. "... filched what few farthings the man carried on hand."
She is quiet now, knowing that, yes, she has been caught. She lets the seconds roll into minutes, considering her predicament. I can all but see her picking her way through the murder, noting the same flaws that should have been obvious to her throughout. It is then that the last piece falls into place.
"It wasn't my..." She starts, but I cut her off again.
"... idea, I know. You're realizing how many flaws there are in this plan. How it easily points every finger at you, and none at your partner. You were set up, my lovely little temptress. Whoever your partner is, you played right into his hands, and now you were to take the fall for the crime as well. Clearly, he cares little for your situation, but you can rest assured that I will find him, to." I hold Dorian up to her again, and I can all but feel the blade shudder in anticipation of the kill. Sometimes, truly, I worry for my dear friend.
"You cannot kill me, Cyric! Please!" She begins pleading. It's amazing how swiftly we'll trade our dignity for life. "I.. I can tell you who he was! Why we did it! There are so many more questions you need the answers to!" Her desperate smile grows, as though she believes she's found an inescapable loophole in the Devil's contract. It is with that same smile she dies, her head cleft from her graceful neck in one swift motion.
"Poor dear... such answers I do not need from your living body... only from your entrapped soul..." With that, I gesture, leaving the language of magic to cause her still-warm corpse to rise, gather it's head, and begin making it's way to my study. Perhaps I'll be able to finish my book before returning to the business at hand.