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~* Yrolg's Omnibus *~

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Yrolg

Yrolg

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The rustling of the late autumn wind among the fallen leaves and detritus formed a choral backdrop to the warm sunlight making its way to the Trustor Estate. Cascading down to the earth in warm and reminiscent beams, this light met with the high-paned windows far above the ground and reflected in shimmering pools of magnified comfort. Sitting calmly in one of these reservoirs of summer’s faded splendor was a portly, middle-aged man in full black suit, his top hat wavering ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. Nonchalantly adjusting and re-adjusting everything about him, he seemed so much at perfect peace in the quiet, restful atmosphere of nature’s final showcase. The winter was approaching as an inexorable storm, and, hard as it was to ignore the day’s perfect weather, it was yet more daunting to forget just how limited was that perfect weather’s stay. Nevertheless he sat calmly upon the brougham-coach, bathed in the fading sunlight of an early-November evening, humming along to the incomparable music of the susurrant leaves and crackling twigs below him.
Reaching again to adjust the reigns – which just moments before he had modified to the perfect placement – he looked out to a disturbance of crunching leaves at the estate’s main entrance. Carefully stowing the leather straps to their holster in front of him, he moved to step down from his vantage point and meet the approaching visitor. Turning his stiff body to descend, his foot slipped on a leaf that had fallen and he tumbled the remaining three feet to the ground below. Regaining his composure and cursing the leaves that had just moments before entertained him, the driver grabbed his top hat, which had fallen from his head as he tumbled, and looked to the entrance in the hope that no one had witnessed the incident.

06-Apr-2008 01:00:07 - Last edited on 29-Oct-2011 21:52:05 by Yrolg

Yrolg

Yrolg

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As his gaze moved toward the brick-framed gate, he saw with embarrassment that a figure was leaned against the structure, hands resting on a long, black cane. It was evident that this man, who was the visitor the driver heard approaching, was chuckling, though he vainly tried to hide it. Ashamedly attempting to forget the incident, the black-clad driver bowed to the figure, saying, “Mr. Harborsford, it is great to see you up and well again.”
Shifting his weight from the gate’s structure to the silver-tipped cane, the figure shuffled a few feet toward the coach. “Jonathan, you are an endless cause of my amusement. I thank you for that – and, I suppose it should be said, I apologize that we have gone so long in absence. As great as it may be to see me well, I can hardly express to you how great it is to feel well again. For too long this estate,” and here he broadly gestured to the cuprous trees and beautiful house behind him, “has claimed me as its prisoner. I should say it’s great to be paroled at last.”

06-Apr-2008 01:00:08 - Last edited on 30-Oct-2011 05:40:44 by Yrolg

Yrolg

Yrolg

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"Veritably, Mr. Harborsford, veritably," responded the driver as he moved to meet the shuffling, superannuated figure. Meeting him a few steps from the gateway, he escorted him to the brougham, lending a hand of stability when the geriatric needed to step up. Closing the door behind the aged man, Jonathan moved around to the driver's seat up front, articulating especially clearly to the cabin's window, "I see that your house arrest has aligned with senescence, Mr. Harborsford. How tragic that you must endure that hardship alone."
"At that, my dear Jonathan, I can only say that the incarceration of disease leaves one hardly alone: my thoughts danced about the estate as daily poltergeists of my misfortune. I did become rather close acquaintances with Ms. Dunsbury, I should disclose. Though her personality is still the outline of insufferable narcissism, I grew fond of her and her wretched beast's presence all the same." Smiling, the old man looked through the window at the house's entrance, decorated for the late autumn celebrations. Carefully looking at the house, he directed his gaze at the high windows from which the sun's reflection was emanating and, with a small fright and even slimmer satisfaction, recognized the pleading shadow obscuring the centremost window.

06-Apr-2008 01:00:08 - Last edited on 31-Oct-2011 00:02:38 by Yrolg

Yrolg

Yrolg

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"Now, Jonathan, there is a reason that I have summoned you," he said upon seeing this figure. "And there is a reason that I have chosen this particular date to do so."
"Is that so, Mr. Harborsford?" inquired the driver, who was unfastening the reigns and preparing to begin the travel.
"Quite," the venerable proprietor responded. "Drive to St. Werburghs' abbey. We shall need to undo some very terrible deeds, Mr. Helmsly. Very terrible indeed."
Not sure how to respond to such an address, the driver merely nodded his head and directed the horses — whose instincts were better yet than his own — to St. Werburghs' abbey.
The tottering carriage made its way along the unpathed paths of Bristol's backroads, weaving an incredulous pace throughout the winding routes. The oak-trimmed coach hurried past pedestrians, sidestreet merchants, and traffic, slowing only as it passed the intersection of Bristol Cathedral's main entryways. Here the traffic was such that they could do nothing but slow, and as Jonathan slowed the coach to the dawdling trot of the thoroughfare, again Mr. Harborsford addressed him. "Jonathan, do you see that building in the distance," he asked, pointing with his arm out of the window at a dilapidated establishment cresting a hill in the distance.
When the driver nodded, the man continued, "I believe that shall suit our needs perfectly fine. I don't have life left in me to withstand such insufferable dodderation." As the driver slowly pulled to the side of the road and weaved a path to the connecting street, again Mr. Harborsford looked about the outside, at the cathedral's high paned windows. Alarmed, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the windows again — he had seen that figure from Trustor. "It can't be," he muttered, jabbing his cane at the coach's floor.
"What is that, Mr. Harborsford?" the driver asked, turning he ear toward the taxiwindow.

06-Apr-2008 01:00:09 - Last edited on 31-Oct-2011 00:03:11 by Yrolg

Yrolg

Yrolg

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"Er," the elderly figure replied, struggling to make sense of what he had just seen, "I said: well let's be moving, I don't have eternity to dawdle."
"Very well," the driver responded, cracking the reigns. No sooner than ten minutes following, the carriage had arrived.
Looking up at the dilapidated establishment, the old man sighed. "We need to talk about the man we removed three years ago," he starkly said to the driver.
"Sir, you told me we should never speak of it again," the man replied.
"Well, Jonathan, it is unavoidable," the elder responded, looking about the house. As his gaze drifted over the window outside, he saw the unmistakable shadow of the figure that had haunted him the entire trip. "I have thrice seen the figures of my past, and I must be vindicated."
"Treat me, right now, as you did him. Let the Cathedral yonder serve as my Holy witness. As I say that I am trapped in that house I am trapped in this body, remembering perpetually the sin we have committed. Rid me of my pain, Jonathan. Do unto me as you did unto him." At this, the old man fell on his knees, ushering a crunch as the feeble bones broke. Crawling forward with his cane still in his hand, the decrepit proprietor looked psychotically up, his anguish — from the broken bones and from the tormentation he lamented — defining the furled eyebrows and bloody, quivering lip.
As he pulled his way along the broken floorboards and his coat was caught along the myriad of broken, rusted nails that adorned the rotted wood's surface, Jonathan moved backwards, groping behind him for support. "Mr. Harborsford, I-I don't know what to say. What we did to that man was horrible, b-but he deserved every ounce of the pain. You said so yourself, sir."

06-Apr-2008 01:00:10 - Last edited on 31-Oct-2011 03:54:40 by Yrolg

Yrolg

Yrolg

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"Please, Jonathan, please — I can't bear it any longer. These ghosts have haunted me every day in that cursed, abysmal house. There wasn't a day to survive without guilt, without reminder. Even when the ghosts had left for ponderation, she — Dunsbury — would come traipsing about as a harrowed reminder of the sins we committed — the sins I committed. Please, Jonathan, I don't ask much." He used his silver-tipped cane, covered in dust in blood, to prop his torso from the ground. "Jonathan — only this one thing, please."
"Kill me."

06-Apr-2008 01:01:09 - Last edited on 31-Oct-2011 03:54:54 by Yrolg

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