Awakenings: Cynwyd"Unicorn, no! I think that's my husband." Of the many statements a lover could utter whilst engaged in intimate matters, this one did not fall under Cynwyd's 'Acceptable' heading. There were several other, more appropriate and, indeed, flattering alternatives that could have been offered up. 'Kiss me there, please!': certainly. 'You're magnificent': definitely. 'I love you, Cynwyd': stretching it, but still within the realm of tolerability . But 'I think that's my husband'? No. That particular statement—in no uncertain terms—tended to put a damper on an evening. Although, 'engaged' as he happened to be at that moment, there was little Cynwyd could do but stare up at his new acquaintance, the Lady Vayne. He'd encountered her at Club Masquerade not long after his jam-session with the club's regular band. She'd stood out amongst the crowd of besotted fans, a pantheress in fancy dress. Intelligent enough to challenge him, mature yet fiery in all the right ways, Vayne had made her intentions known early on. There would be no love letters, no desperate knocks on his front door at Fourth Strike, no holding hands while shopping on Vine Street. Just plain, old carnality to burn away the boredom of another summer evening. Early into the evening, Vayne had taken him from the club by carriage to her fashionable two-story estate in Mont Nuit; all sculpted gardens, blue-grass lawns, and Edwardian architecture. Apparently, she'd neglected to mention she also shared it with her suddenly-present husband. The sounds of a carriage slowing drifted up from the courtyard below, the decision to leave the patio doors open to catch the night breeze an apparent blessing in more ways than one. "What is he doing home a week early?!" Vayne blurted, still… rooted… to the spot. Cynwyd supposed he should have been more concerned about the returning husband, especially with as much trouble as he had been in as of late. But the lady's distress did such diverting things to her anatomy, both visually and ... in other ways. And if she was to pin him to the spot, he could certainly not be blamed for at the least taking pleasure in the few advantages of the situation. Lazily opening his eyes, he looked up at her, even as he made sure his weapon was within easy reach, casting the sheath aside as he hid the naked steel beneath the covers so casually thrown about during the pleasant dalliance. "How am I to know," he said, his voice languid as he leaned back on his elbows, casting his hair to one side with a flip of his head. "Perhaps we should ask him when he arrives?" Vayne gazed down at him, dumbfounded. Her mouth hung open for a moment, before gnarling up into a frown. "Damnit, this is no time for jokes!" She thumped Cynwyd on the chest and tried to disengage herself from him. She frowned as they parted and hurriedly wrapped herself in the sheets. "Jokes?" he replied languidly, making no attempt to likewise cover himself. "Who was joking?" "You need to get out of here. And be quick about. If he catches you, he'll assuredly kill us both. Or divorce me. I'm not sure which is worse right now. There's a trellis beside the balcony. Use it!" Still half-naked, she inspects herself in the mirror and wrinkles her nose in disgust. She glanced up to stare at his reflection, "Well?!" While Cynwyd had an alluring smile, he had an even more impressive sneer, which he used to good effect. "Please. You must take me for someone who gives a damn," he said flippantly. "Trellis indeed." He stood to his feet, finally beginning to dress himself, though most assuredly in a slower manner than she would have intended. "And there are many more options than you stated," he added as an after thought as he sat on a convenient divan, his sword still within easy reach. Vayne hurriedly ran a brush through her flowing hair; her gaze positively glowering. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not worth the risk. Besides, my husband fought beside King Eric during the PatternFall War. He may lack the steel below, but he'll mount your head on our mantle with little effort." She turned around and attempted a smile. "You're a delightful distraction, Cynwyd. But you're just a boy. And when the morning comes, I need a man. A rich man. So put your britches on and get out!" With a sigh, she turned away to fetch her night robe off its rack. "And do keep quiet about this will you? I'll make certain you are rewarded for your discretion, of course." Cynwyd laughed. "At times, skill matters for naught. Young I may be, but I think I have a lesson for you this evening." With that, done dressing, Cynwyd took his belongings and his leave... Not by trellis, but out of the bedroom and towards the front door. Lady Vayne let out a shriek of rage, but could do little 'dressed' as she was. He could hear her fumbling around for clothing, a string of expletives following in his wake. The sound faded as he made his way through the extensive mansion, returning to the front foyer. By the time Cynwyd reached the bottom steps, the butler had just opened the front door for the Master of the house. "Darling, I'm ho…" the man, a lanky brown-haired fellow with a touch of grey came to a halt in the doorway. He studied Cynwyd for a moment, weighing whether or not the young man belonged in his home. "Hello?" he said cautiously. As the door opened, Cynwyd pulled out a few coins, looking up the stairs waving. "Thank you for the tip, mila..." he stopped on cue as the door opened. "Oh!" he said, turning towards whom he presumed was Lord Vayne. "Milord," he continued quickly, putting a touch of a quaver in his voice, looking towards the butler to gauge his reaction as he averted his eyes in a practiced show of deference. As he straightened, seeing the expected look of puzzlement mixed with expectation still on Lord Vayne's face, he continued, "A messenger I am, sent to deliver a..." his face fell. "... discreet message. I'll take my leave now, if I may," he asked, looking furtively towards the door. Lord Vayne straightened his back like a cautious hound. Discerning eyes of glacial blue studied Cynwyd for a moment, a keen intelligence crouching within that mind. Whatever he decided, the scarecrow stepped aside, "Of course. Thank you for being so diligent as to attend my wife at this late hour. I'm certain the message must have been of great importance." Breathing a sigh of relief, the butler stepped forward. "Sire, I'll show the young messenger to the front gate and then retrieve your luggage." "Yes, yes, very good, Alexander," Lord Vayne said, his eyes still on Cynwyd. "Safe journey to you, young man. It looks like a summer storm approaches..." His disarming smile hid the teeth lurking beneath. Forcing himself not to look back to see if Lord Vayne followed his retreat, Cynwyd quickly left after the butler, trying to put as much distance between himself and whatever happened inside the Vayne household. His expeditious withdrawal served him well. Distant shouting emerged from the upstairs window as he rounded the courtyard's fountain, but faded by the time Cynwyd descended to the main street. Lord Vayne had been correct about a storm. Beyond the New City below, lightning flashed on the ocean, illuminating rolling clouds. Although some distance off still, it might catch him before he made it home. And finding a cab or rickshaw in this section of Amber would be difficult. To the west, the pentagonal 'jewels' of Castle Amber glowed in the darkness like miniature moons. The sanctuary of his familial home waited somewhere between here and the castle. Though he was never really fond of the work of Stephen Stills, Cynwyd found himself humming the man's famous ditty to accompany his journey as he increased to an agreeable pace to make his way home. The streets were positively barren at this late hour. As he passed French- and Edwardian-inspired mansions, the only people Cynwyd noticed were the occasional servants preparing their estates for the coming storm. At one point, a bashful girl collecting night-blooms bowed her head to him as he passed. At another, he was given the once-over by a Blackrobe conducting his rounds. But otherwise, the young man remained entirely alone for much of his ascent toward the Main Concourse. Indeed, the silence and solitude were so profound that when the shout came, it sounded like some godly voice from on-high. "Wretched beast! Damn you and your whore of a mother! I've killed lesser men than you!" ^And the night was just getting better,^ Cynwyd thought. If Lord Vayne caught up with him, then he must have faster transport; to run would just get him tired and muss his clothes, and not really serve a purpose. So, even though it didn't sound like Lord Vayne was in the mood to reason, that was the tack that Cynwyd decided to initially take, turning to face the approaching man. "Lesser, but I'm sure no greater," he said dropping all pretense of servility. "And why do you pursue me this time of night?" Rather than Lord Vayne, Cynwyd discovered a perplexing sight coming around a corner. First, a tan horse without a saddle nonchalantly turned onto the main thoroughfare and headed toward the young man. A fine specimen, the animal glanced at him with brown—almost human—eyes. It gave an exasperated snort as it drew closer. A heartbeat later, a red-haired fellow carrying a saddle appeared, apparently in pursuit of the horse. His cheeks were flushed and his stylish moustache curled with frustration. "Damn you, I sh-ed stop!" He continued the languishing pursuit as if he traversing the deck of a ship caught in heavy seas. Upon noticing Cynwyd, he dropped the saddle and grasped the boy's arms with astonishing speed. His whiskey-fire breath could have cleared a hull of barnacles. "You sh-ur appear to be a man of…hon (gag)…a man of hon (gag)… ". . . a man with a sword." He pointed toward the horse, "Kill this deceitful cur and I will give you wealth unlike you've ever imagined. And I can do it. . ." The drunkard leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "I could have been a king, you know." He touched his nose and winked, his pupils swimming about his fishbowl eyes. Seeing that he was in fact, not under pursuit, and that Lord Vayne was not in attendance, Cynwyd relaxed marginally, taking in the fellow's inebriated state. The horse was the more valuable of the two, and as such Cynwyd responded, "I can take the horse off of your hands, rather than leave you with a dead beast. A much better offer, I assure you." The redheaded, red-nosed fellow considered this for a moment. The horse turned its sleek head, ears twitching with interest. Whether or not it had an opinion, it remained quiet on the issue. Crickets sang in the distance as the weighty decision came to a conclusion. "Do you hear that, Corwin?" the man finally said, leveling an accusatory finger at the horse. "No more sh-tables for you. Arrogant bastard." The effort required to point in anger threw off the man's balance and he sat down hard, a shocked gasp escaping him. He slumped onto his back, staring numbly up at the midnight sky. "Take him! Eat him for all I care." 'Corwin' whinnied and gave Cynwyd a studious once over. He gave an annoyed snort and shook his mane. "Well, 'Corwin'," Cynwyd said, facing the horse. "Just in case you are more than you seem, I suppose I should bow and say that all of this should be forgiven when you assume your normal form- there's no way that I would give this story any credence under normal circumstance." Cynwyd bowed to the horse, then mounted. "Thanks for the ride, old man," he called over his shoulder as he made his way home. Corwin whinnied in approval and didn't shirk from Cynwyd climbing onto his back. He waited patiently, swishing his tail. Red-Hair raised his hand and waved drunkenly. "My pleasure, good sh-ur. You're a knight amongst men. I, however, shall remain here. My work is done and I feel a tad worn by this evening's undertakings." He belched foully and splayed out his arms on the street. Snoring followed in short order. Corwin pawed his hoof and gave another snort. Without a look over his shoulder, Cynwyd urged the horse onward and made his way towards home. Corwin whinnied, happy to be moving again. He behaved well as they made their way up the winding streets, accepting Cynwyd's commands without complaint. However, as they crested a rise, the horse became increasingly skittish. An elevated section of Flag Hill, Heron Street offered a perfect view of Castle Amber and its environs. Bathed in moonlight, the castle and Mount Kolvir shimmered like a mirage. Corwin began pawing the ground and would advance no further, his stubbornness absolute. In the city below, the Temple Street clock marked the arrival of midnight. With each chime, the shimmering mirage before them grew increasingly hazy. In unsettling pulses, the moonlight changed from silver to green until it bathed the world in sickly light. This infection spread across the city with virulent speed, reducing it to a ghost city of shadow and ash. But of all the buildings, Castle Amber underwent the most profound transformation. With startling alacrity, its pentagonal towers blossomed upward, stone and mortar stretching like pulled taffy, groaning and creaking like ancient bones and muscles. Misshaped stairwells and platforms erupted from its pristine construction like tumors, extrinsic chambers and windows opened up like sores. Angles ran riot, ignoring the laws of gravity and structure; floors became walls, walls became roofs. Architectural designs from forgotten cultures bred with Edwardian and Baroque and Renaissance and Chaosian. Structures hung off the rising edifice like broken limbs, vestigial and useless. The simple act of gazing upon the transmogrified building made the mind burn with its exoticness. It continued to rise, reaching for the greenish moon like an obscene flower until finally the living structure settled into repugnant and beautiful solidity. Corwin rankled with fear, his vocalization deafening in the choking silence. Cynwyd just sat there, stunned, his silent counterpoint in agreement with Corwin's more vocal summary of the situation. The horse tugged on his reins, whining once more. Fortunately, the horse's training prevented it from bolting madly through the shadow-filled streets. No wind stirred as they sat there, watching this ghoulish tableau. The storm—once-threatening—had disappeared, leaving nothing but slate-grey clouds and greenish light. Corwin snorted and tugged again, eager to be moving. Somewhere. Anywhere. The only problem with giving into the horse's instincts was that Cynwyd had no idea of where he should go. Was his home even present in this nightmare landscape? Maybe Lord Vayne had caught up with him and killed him and now he was in some form of hell. But it appeared that he wouldn't find out any answers sitting here. And with that thought, he began to make his way to where his villa should be- hoping all the time that it was there. Corwin, eager to proceed, followed his guidance. The streets, although transformed cosmetically, did not appear to have been altered architecturally. He recognized the various buildings and structures of his neighborhood beneath the grime and blood. As they moved forward, they passed obsidian coffins appeared on the sidewalks, frozen and silent. One lay casually upon a stoop as if surveying the street. Corwin grew increasingly skittish again, coming to a halt and refusing to proceed. Ahead of them the street arched around a fountain; one Cynwyd sat beside while listening to local musicians. Now its blue and green pool burbled with ichor and stinking meat. Around this abattoir, a figure twirled and danced with arms out wide. A woman. Cynwyd's first instinct was to go to the woman- to see why she was still here when no one else was. But two things stopped his rush to her aid. Corwin's reaction to the tableau, and the backdrop before which she danced. Choosing the horse's instincts over valour, Cynwyd turned Corwin to find another way to his villa. Corwin seemed grateful for this choice, hurrying his pace the movement Cynwyd turned him down an alternative route. His hoof beats on the cobblestones, however, did not go unnoticed. A squeal of joy cut through the silence, "Ooooo. . . Dollies, dollies, dollies! Come back, Dollies!"" Something unfamiliar, a nagging whisper at the back of his head, a voice he'd never heard but knew was his own somehow, suddenly filled his mind with the overwhelming need to twist his body; diminishing his profile on the horse. His body responded, puppet-like, jerking him in the saddle, almost unseating him. And yet, that action saved his life. A trio of Tarot cards streaked by his throat like shuriken, missing Cynwyd by a mere breath, only to imbed themselves in a nearby wrought iron lamppost. <This is not a fight we can win, boy> The voice said, betraying its fear. "I said come BACK, Dollies!" the women screeched in pure madness. Though the voice in his mind was unsettling and more than a little creepy, the rational side of Cynwyd- what little was left of it at this point in this nightmare- realized it had saved his life. That is... if this was real. Cynwyd had never really believed in Heaven nor Hell, but what if Lord Vayne had truly caught him and killed him before he knew it? What if this ... was Hell? <Close enough, Boy> The Voice retorted. <Now ride!> That was something Cynwyd did not need to be told, even by an imaginary voice in his head. Keeping close to Corwin's back, Cynwyd gave him his head as they raced through the street. Cynwyd hoped that the woman wouldn't be able to keep up at the breakneck pace Corwin took through the streets, and spared a glance back to see if she was falling behind. The woman leapt down from the fountain onto all fours and loped toward them with paranormal speed. The resulting lacerations to her feet and hands did little to slow her advance. As she moved, the world appeared to ripple behind her like the wake of a boat passing through the ocean. The distortions reminded Cynwyd of the strange tidal effects he'd witnessed as a child when his aunt had taken him to the Abyss. Though the information was useful, Cynwyd immediately wished he'd been able to choose ignorance over enlightenment. His heart began to beat faster, and unaccustomed sweat touched his brow. He made an even smaller profile, urging Corwin with his thoughts and his words to faster speeds. Corwin bucked and frothed as the woman drew closer, flanking them with predatory skill. ~Why didn't I learn to shift,~ Cynwyd thought, even as he loosened his sword in its scabbard. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would do no good, but he wasn't going to go to his death like a lamb to slaughter. <You're too close to the Pattern for that, Boy> The Voice chided. <In another place. Another Time. It would be advisable. But save your energies and focus on riding true!> Cynwyd's perceptions of the world became increasingly acute. Although he knew Corwin must have been moving at a tremendous speed down the streets, everything appeared to slow down to a leisurely pace. Even with the blade in his hand, turns that would have normally unseated him and hurtling to grievous injury were taken with comfortable ease. As if drawing upon an ancient knowledge, the city mentally unfolded itself before him, revealing its secret pathways and alleys. And by utilizing there, they soon outpaced their pursuer, leaving her far behind them hopelessly lost in the maze of streets. As the familiar lights of Cynwyd's home came into view, the Voice grew more relaxed. <Best loosen your reins. You're killing your horse. And our hunter has sought easier prey.> Cynwyd took a glance behind him and found that the voice spoke true. He let up on the reins, though he still kept Corwin at a canter, not truly relaxing until they were beyond the gate and onto his grounds. "Who are you? And what's going on?" he asked the empty air. The Voice remained silent as they drew close to another coffin, standing near the estate's front steps like an ancient sentinel. Then, after a lengthy pause, the Voice chuckled with fatherly affection. <You shall discover that in due course, young man. We have all eternity for revelations, you and I> And with that, the world flickered and twisted, perspectives and distances churning. Obsidian flakes fell from the coffin like old scales. The greenish moonlight turned grey and cold, but with it came an overwhelming sense of life, as if Cynwyd's had woken up from a stifling dream. Rain wet his face and body, the long forgotten storm suddenly all around him. Lightning dismissed the darkness, illuminating a very startled Maya. . . exactly where the coffin had been an instant before. Maya leapt back with a yelp, the wine glass in her hands shattering on the cobblestones. "Cynwyd?! Where. . . where the God's Spit did you come from?!" Cynwyd almost jumped himself, but was able to keep his cool, even as he dismounted, adjusting his hair and dusting off his clothes. "Perhaps eye glasses rather than wine glasses are in order?" he said playfully as he walked Corwin towards the stables. "What do you think Corwin?" Corwin snorted, just happy to have the rain to cool him down. Maya stood there, still too stunned to comment further. As the rider and horse drew abreast of the stables, he could make out her shadow bending over to pick up the pieces of shattered glass. Out of the rain, the world grew warmer and gained a sense of normalcy. Maya's piebald mare hung her head over the stall to investigate the new arrive. Corwin gave an irritated snort and shook his body, as if to get Cynwyd off. Apparently, the stallion didn't want to seen with a soaking wet Chaosian on his back when a lady was nearby. Cynwyd slid from Corwin's back, giving him some feed and rubbing him down for a bit. "You saved my life there," he said appreciatively. "Thanks." Then after rubbing him down, Cynwyd left the stables, heading into his Villa. Corwin gave a horse-like shrug and walked off to introduce himself to the 'ladies.' As he walked in, he greeted the other willowy twin. "Anya... have you seen anything weird in the last couple of hours?" Anya glanced up from her ledger and gave him a discerning look over her reading glasses. "When we define 'weird,' are talking about young women throwing their love-stricken bodies upon the front doorstep, fathers seeking vengeance for the deflowering of their favored daughter, or something more supernatural in origin?" She smirked, "Or is it that you've returned home before First strike?" She idly gestured toward the water-clock, which showed the time to be only quarter to One; impossible, considering the amount of time Cynwyd had spent during his harrowing experience. "No," Cynwyd said, more serious than he normally was as he considered the water-clock. "Definitely supernatural... is that right?" he said, pointing to the clock. "It has to be later than that..." Anya followed his gesture, only to shake her head, slightly confused by the look on his face. "No, sir. I set all the clocks in the house and I make sure they're accurate. I heard you and Maya speaking in the courtyard only a few moments after the storm began. And the rains started just at Twelfth Strike. I'd opened the window to cool the room." She folded her spectacles and set them beside her ink-pot. "Why do you ask?" "No reason," Cynwyd said, a bit too casually. "No reason at all." Retiring to his room, Cynwyd sat on one of the sprawling cushions, considering for a moment the things that had just occurred. He knew he hadn't imagined it, for Corwin was with him. Steepling his hands, he closed his eyes. <<Hello? You still with me?>> He was answered only with silence. And yet… Cynwyd 'felt' someone or something there, a thin sliver of a presence crouching in the back of his mind. Like a lost memory from childhood, it lingered there in the maze of thoughts and feelings, elusive and vague. But no matter how he tried, he could not coax this sliver out. Exhausted by the events of the night, Cynwyd uncharacteristically fell asleep fully clothed, still exploring for that tickle even with his last conscious thought. Continued In Cynwyd: Rock and a Hard Place |
