Wednesday, April 28, 2004
6:05 PM
*LordLoser of Fyrestone Mansion*
The theatre was closed, and it was not surprising. It had been closed for almost a decade now, and no one ever bothered with it anymore. Musty old curtains hung limply from the ceiling poles. They were a faded maroon, a shadow of what was once fine wine red. The floorboards had long ago began to creak as one’s boots padded on their softening surfaces. The air smelled musty and old, and locked up. The huge golden sconces had rusted and fallen away, and bats resided in every dark cranny. Plush seats were now decayed, their innards exposed to the elements—screaming neglect. Faint streamers of sunlight filtered through tiny slits in the boarded-up windows, and the expensive threads in the carpet were frilling.
Nonetheless, a figure sat cross-legged in the middle of the stage, a lone candle aiding him in his conquest across pieces of parchment. Long, silvery hair was escaping from its loose braid, and turquoise eyes danced in the flickering candle flame. His skin—as pale and alabaster white as the moon—glowed eerily in the dimness, and slenderly pointed elfin ears peeked out form behind a mass of hair. His hand darted about in its conquest across the parchment. He found that he could write here. It was almost like going back in time, the elf thought. Had a famous actor walked across this stage once? Had a beautiful singer enchanted her audience form this platform? He could imagine the magnificent crimson curtains spread open, could imagine the fires burning upon their intricate torches. He could see the audience, immersed in their applause. He could almost hear the music playing, the sounds of rich voices—delivering some of the most exquisite and flawless performances of all time. Was the building speaking to him, he wandered. For with every hollow gale, every unfamiliar scent, he seemed to know something more about the place. It was as if he had been born here and knew it for all his life. For a scant moment, his quill paused in its tracks, and the elegant scrawl of cursive halted abruptly. Perhaps, he thought silently to himself. Perhaps somewhere in this old theatre was an entire store of scripts—plays dating back so long ago, they were hardly understandable.
Valcryn smiled wryly. Indeed, he told himself sarcastically. There you go conceiving the impossible again. His pen resumed its journey as he worked hard on the script, brows furrowed with concentration. He ignored the kinks in his stiff legs, the aches in his back from being in that position for too long a time. For hours more he sat and wrote, wrote what the theatre whispered to him—for it was like a friend to the young playwright. He never even so much as noticed when the candle became too short, and the flame sputtered and went out entirely. His hand felt gnarled and clammy, but he continued on. Just a bit more—just one perfect ending to grab their hearts. Yes, the theatre seemed to whisper to him. Yes, a perfect ending.
"Master?"
The voice caused Valcryn to start. He almost dropped his quill and toppled the ink pot. With no mild annoyance, he turned around to see Riggs standing by the theatre doors, a metal try in hand. He had not gotten use to the idea of a butler yet. Especially not one who smothered him like a boy and brought him ilk and cookies.
"What is it now Riggs?" he snapped. "I'm not hungry."
The butler shook his head, starchy white collar not joining in the movement. The older man lifted the cover off the tray.
"It’s a letter for you, master, not food."
Valcryn rolled his eyes and sighed. "How quaint."
He took the envelope from the butler and broke the seal—a lion holding a lance—his family's seal. Not another invitation to wedding, the young elf hoped. He was having quite enough trouble already, trying to fit into position of Lord of Fyrestone Mansion. The last thing he needed was another troublesome niece's fancy party. He asked himself again, why on earth he had taken the job. Oh yes, Valcryn almost muttered, Because it was the law.
He unfolded the parchment—not particularly new—and was about to start reading it out loud.
Riggs raised an eyebrow. "What does it say master, if I may ask."
Valcyrn glared at him.
"It says 'Dear Sir Valcryn Mastri, Lord of Fyrestone Mansion. I am writing to you as an unlce and a friend, on the issue of the Mansion. There are a few things you must know. One of which is that the attic is infested with bats, and you will need a wizard to help extricate them.'" Val snorted. "As if I never knew that."
Riggs looked at him sharply. "Master."
"Right." He said. "'The second thing is that my niece Florence is getting married in two days' time, and as a Mastri, it is only right that she have her ceremony in the Fyrestone Mansion. I seek you cooperation in preparing the decorations and making the place vacant.'"
Valcryn looked fiercely at the butler. "When did this arrive?"
"Two days ago, master."
The elf almost let out a pretty string of oaths form his mouth, but the butler shook his head sternly at him.
"I have taken care of everything, master." He said calmingly. "Do read on."
He almost slapped the old man. " 'The last and most important thing is never ever, in any circumstance, unlock the old theatre. Do not even go near it. There are things within you do not want to encounter.' "
Valcryn's eyes widened. He stood up immediately, taking his parchment and writing equipment with him. His eyes scanned the room, as if waiting for a monster or goblin to come charging out of nowhere. The theatre, however, remained as eerily quiet as ever.
"Come, master," Riggs said. "We had best adhere your uncle's instructions and leave this place."
The elf didn't budge. He was looking higher up, at the corners and shady areas. He thought he saw something move—something dark and swift. His heart began to pound, and he was assaulted by millions of apprehensions. Yet his eyes searched the ceiling relentlessly, as if he knew something were up there. Riggs grabbed his master's hand and dragged him out the door.
"You will be late for the wedding, master." He said frantically, shutting the theatre door.
Valcryn blinked and shook his head.
"Yes," he muttered. "Of course."
* * *
Valcryn was suddenly reminded why he hated social events. He fidgeted in the thick suit and high collar. He sat at the head of the long table, hair slicked back neatly. All thanks to Riggs, of course, who stood by his master's side. The young lord, almost sighed and swore, before reminding himself he was supposed to be one of the richest and most refined gentlemen in the town. Unfortunately, he wanted nothing more than to spit on that comment.
It was incredibly noisy. One would have thought a formal dinner would be quiet and respectful, but the hall was filled with endless gossip. The noblewomen sat in their frilly skirts and numerous jewels, chatting about the latest fashion or whose husband left who. The men droned on and on about war stories—for the older ones—and the latest weapons for the younger lot. Valcryn was disinterested in both. He was sitting beside his young nephew Ferrick, a strange lad who seemed more interested in staring at the groom's sister than his steak and potatoes. On his other side was the Duchess of Esime's daughter, Margot. And quite frankly, he might as well have been sitting next to a slug because despite her evident beauty, she was as fast as a tortoise running cross-country. She batted her lashes at him, and talked with an intelligible stutter.
"Margot is very gifted in singing, you know." The Duchess boasted. "Show him what you can do, dear."
Oh please no, please no, please no. Valcryn prayed hard and long.
The girl opened her ruby lips and the most god-awful sound erupted from her mouth. For a moment, he wandered why Margot was screaming and even considered checking if there was a mouse under the table or something. After a few moments of tuneless ups and downs, however, he realized she was crowing a very disbanded version of Amazing Grace. The entire table shook and goosebumps started spreading over his skin. Valcryn shuddered and hoped with all his heart she would stop. She dragged on hopelessly for about five minutes before the young elf lost his patience.
"For all the saints' sakes, do shut up!" he yelled. The girls closed her mouth immediately. Margot smiled at him sweetly.
"Did you like it?"
Val's eyes widened. "Like it?" he sputtered. "I've heard a cow sing better."
She seemed unaffected at first—or perhaps it was years of culture. But then her bottom lip began to quiver like a little child's. Then she broke into loud, noisy lachrymose sobs, and took off from the dining hall, her heels screeching as she ran. Valcryn bit his lip and tried to look innocent, but the dozens of angry stares reflected the mutual feeling.
"Go after her." Riggs hissed in his ear. Valcryn sighed.
"Right. But save me some food."
The butler's icy stare clobbered him.
He got out of his seat and quickly darted out the door, pacing the elaborately decorated hallways, wondering how he was going to apologise to the poor girl. He wasn't good at these things, and he wasn't good at being a High Class Lord. Valcyrn Mastri was reminded once again of the reason why he had abandoned his last name in the first place.
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ahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha....
^.^"
couldn;t help it. im being wacky today. so wacky mood=wacky story. yay...
contrary to any beliefs u may have, i am NOT one of them romantic freaks, thanks. its just wacky. wackywacky wacky WACKY
lol...i think im really going insane today. just had eng exam....and in a writey mood, but only to write WEIRD things. okay im seriously insane. well anyways, dis is da product of an insane mind. ahakz.
oh and learnt some badcool html today.see how smart i am??lol...okok.
cant wait for friday! and sports day!and slacking!
right.
-_-
