Gin Mill was pretty big this time around. We had a lot of new Mateus friends, a few old Mateus friends who moved, and a lot of Goblin observers (who mostly kept the trolling to a minimum -- close enough, everyone still had fun).
I know a lot of people’s cheese has been seriously moved by the server moves and world visit system, but we had ~40 attendees tonight, enough to cause the noisy crowd SFX, tons of awesome matches, and overall a pretty damn kickass time, so I figured I’d show some of the positive that’s already come from it.
(yeah that middle one is me being proud of my own match, shush I had a little cheer squad, it was hella heartwarming okay SHH)
(At the suggestion of a friend, the transcript of Char’s poetry reading from The Gin Mill last week. Not my poem, by the by. It’s titled Threnody In Three Courses, and was written by Sonya Vatomsky. This poem rings of Charlemont through and through, and I posted it ages ago here.)
The tall, broad Duskwight stepped onto the stage quietly, not only in his steps, but in his demeanor as well. His dusky, navy blue hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, though despite the tension a lock still escaped here and there. In his hand was held a small, soft, leatherbound booklet. His thumb was tucked neatly inside the pages, and before ever looking at the crowd gathered, he bowed his head and opened the book.
A moment of silence passed, as if he were waiting for the din in the room to cease. He waited for no voices, no coughing or clearing of throats, no shifting of chairs against the wooden floors. And when the lack of noise eased into place, Charlemont lifted his head and bared his piercing golden eyes to the room. While they brimmed with intensity, his countenance otherwise remained calm.
“The guests are clockwise around the table,” he began. There was an odd quality to his voice, a warm depth, yes, but an all together disquieting cadence. His timbre held a bit of a melody, a bit of otherworldliness, and when he spoke those eyes slowly held the gaze of one person after another.
“Mother… father… allthreebrothers,awitch,herlover…” Char took his time with the first two words, letting them wrap around his tongue before dropping them into the air. But the rest of the sentence was rushed, jammed all together, sounds flicking like a switch through his teeth. He inhaled slowly and those golden eyes narrowed then, a corner of his lips tugging upward just a touch. Just a touch.
“Multiple fat housecats…” His tongue peeked out from between his lips, moistening them in the blink of an eye. The next words were simple. “And then me.” He paused, and the barely there smirk was gone. “Arriving late.”
“Black wool,” he swore, punctuating each word with an almost threatening, knowing staccato, “soaked to the bone… and hair slick against my forehead like sand from the receding tide.” Charlemont took a step to the side, beginning to pace, or perhaps prowl. His eyes still flickered from person to person, still keen and cutting. Absently, he placed the book on a nearby stool.
“Whenever we toast a death I raise my glass expectantly; the housecats have better manners, and they know how to be loved like I don’t.” He shook his head then and held up one hand to the crowd, insisting and denying as he wandered the stage and his words began to roll downhill with a gentle, ranting cadence.
“It’s better when the sun sinks down, smoke snaking through my room like a priest’s incense as I tend to plants… to fingernails…” Charlemont slowed and then stopped, closing his eyes and pulling his hand down into a fist by his heart.
“…keeping everything constrained in a corset laced by ritual,” He frowned faintly and his brow furrowed. That same hand lifted again and opened as he turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. He continued when the back of his fingers touched his own cheek.
“…and pulled taut with the gravity of tradition, moving me soft across the board like a footless ghost.” And as he spoke his voice softened, quietened. His speed slowed once more, and he let a silence hang in the air again.
He took a step forward, his eyes still closed. “Forward,” he breathed, and then he took another step. “Forward,” he breathed again. This time though, he stopped and pulled his hand away from his face, shaking his head. “Wait. I could never play chess; I can only defend.”
“Fortify walls and spill salt on the perimeter,” he continued. Char stood in the center of the stage again and long fingers swept over the wood of the stool he’d left his notebook on without so much as a sideways glance. “Expect the worst and then what?” His own response to the question was a dark, amused smirk.
He curled his hand into a fist and knocked slowly, three times, as he spoke these words of power. His power. “It knocks three times or creeps in through the window like a secret lover…” he announced, his voice morphing back into that varied lull; and as if to punctuate his next words he licked his lips. “…lips to your brow.”
“Roll the demon over and sit on his chest till the breath sputters out - a priest’s incense finding gods in the ceiling cracks.” Charlemont’s eyes swept over the crowd with a pointed assertion; falcon-like and unforgiving. His next words were gentler, winding downward.
“The moon is a dish of cream in the ink-black sky I dye my clothes with,” he recited slowly, and his hand captured his book off the nearby stool as his posture straightened. “When I toast this death I clink my glass and no admonishment comes.”
One final time, eyelids closed and opened again with a certain deliberateness. His voice was as grave and chilly as the Coerthan earth. “I arrived late.” The silence that then hung in the air breathed ominous with unknown potential. “You will not arrive at all.” Charlemont held onto the silence for a moment before taking a graceful step back and exiting the stage.
