Part 27 - Christmas(Snow2)

they03/07/2020

The Spire is disorderly. The walls of the circular room are tattered, the diagrams of snow and telescope arrangements wilting like a cut flower scattered on the floor. The telescope previously erected in the center is toppled down, lying on the floor in pieces while the table is covered in melting snow and brackish water. The pile of empty bottles placed near the door is largely made up of long-finished wines, but there is the faint smell of a fresh bottle among the trash. The shutter in the center of the room is half opened, the metal stained with dried blood and wine. In the corner of the room, the wide-brimmed hat is flattened underneath an open book (a rather heavy volume titled "On the Subject of Anatomy, I-IV") page-side down, the distinct sound of screaming fluttering the pages.

Charlemagne: -Severely muffled.- GET ME OUT OF HERE! LET ME OUT!.

The boy03/07/2020

Able makes his way into the spire, kicking aside the bottles with half worry and half disgust. Again? He wondered why he would drink so readily. He moves to the corner of the room, unearthing Charlemagne and lifting him up.

Able: Where is he?

they03/07/2020

The wide brimmed hat screams into Able's face.

Charlemagne: HE'S DOWN BELOW! QUICK, THROW ME OUT THE WINDOW, I NEED TO GET OUT! OUT, I SAY, OUT!

The boy03/07/2020

Able winces, tossing the hat to the side. He moves down the stairs, sighing.

Able: Ah, I will see about that.

Able makes his way down the stairs, moving down a few floors.

they03/07/2020

Charlemagne: NO, LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!

The wide brimmed hat screeches as Able heads down the stairs. The old bedroom has been rennovated; the beds are gone and have been replaced with a study desk and various diagrams pasted across the wall, though they too seem to be in disarray and dilapidated as well. The diagrams seem to have become more manic as well, becoming more illegible and saying things such as "There is something about feeding pigs the snow, but why?" and "I should try making a snowman. . ." and, most concisely "IT'S NOT SNOW". As Able descends past into the kitchen, he's accosted by several gloves that are on the stairs, the gloves skittering around his ankles.

A Pair of Gloves: A GUEST! A GUEST! A Brooch: HE'S BACK, HE'S BACK!

There's a pile of clothes (the mass shifting as if it was breathing) bundled at the bottom of the stairs, skittering around the floor with free reign; there are bizarre creatures that look like arachnids made of gloves, fish made of folded bunches of scarves, and vague limbs lying around the ground made of jackets and pants.

A False-Spider: -Wheezing; scratching at the floor.- HE IS COMING BACK! WE HAVE MISSED HIM!

The false-creatures don't seem to be talking to Able, instead focusing their attention to a rug on the floor, scratching at it with pins and fingers without hands.

The boy03/07/2020

Able kicks aside the rug, taking a good long look around the room.

Able: Who?

Able kneels.

Able: Did he leave?

they03/07/2020

Underneath the rug, there is a square, wooden hatch, an iron handle on a hinge attached to the wood. The clothes pique up, scratching at the hatch harder.

A False-Spider: -Scratching at the hatch.- HE IS COMING BACK! WE MISS HIS ENERGY! WE WISH FOR HIM TO HAVE US BACK!.

The boy03/07/2020

Able lifts the hatch, opening it and peering down.

Able: Are you sure he's happy like that? Aren't you being selfish?

they03/07/2020

Down the hatch, there are. . .stairs. They don't seem new, however; instead of being the tight, spiral stairs used on the floors above, they seem to be straight, leading off to a small curve at the end. Beyond that, there's not enough light to see what's below. The clothes quickly rush down into the open hatch (save for the largest clothes colony in the corner, merely content with its size for now).

A Flurry of Voices: HE IS BACK! HE WILL DELIGHT IN US AGAIN!

The clothes rush by, slipping between Able's ankles on their way down the stairs.

The boy03/07/2020

Able makes his way downstairs. Of course he'd have hidden areas. At least there wasn't merely wasted space in the spire. He heads down, looking around as he does.

Able: Oy bandaged! You best not be caught with wine when I reach you!

they03/07/2020

The room is dark; after a moment, however, there is a small click, and a soft humming. A series of strange amber lights surrounded by glass emit a warm, low amber glow, the room faintly illuminated. A glove drops from a desk covered in scattered papers and a photo frame (facing towards the seat), a large lever on the wooden unit pulled down; there is a wooden rocking chair placed at the end, and a familiar painting of the bandaged man placed behind the chair. The portrait is eerie; while the bandaged man looks like he's wrapped up loosely and with the same manic expression of glee, his smile seems askew rather than familiarly crooked, the eyes hollow and vacant (like an addicted Londoner still in the haze of a honey-dream). Along the ground, there are long bundles of elastic rope, haphazardly lying along the wooden floor and leading to a giant lead box that's whirring like a large, fast engine. There are many, many cabinets set around; strange glass lamps, with blackened wicks inside, are arranged on their sides and rolling about, a familiar Violant ink smeared across the glass. On the floor, there are bundles of clothing scratching at another square hatch, the floor creaking as they gather around it.

The boy03/07/2020

Able: . . .Why would he.. Hm.

Able continues his walk, avoiding objects on the floor until he reaches the next hatch, pulling it up. He could explore another time, right now he still needed to see the bandaged man. He heads down again.

they03/07/2020

The hatch opens, and the clothing starts crawling down into the dark hatch; there is no light, and there is nothing to see. However, in the dark, Able can hear the sound of faint, muffled sniffling.

A Brooch: WE CANNOT SEE! A Pair of Gloves: QUICK, A CANDLE! A LIGHT!

There's rustling in the dark, before the striking of a match; Able can hear the skittering of cloth against wood, and several candles (burnt down nearly to their base) are lit up along the ground and the walls; several bracketed candles are lining the wall, the pair of gloves yelping as each candle comes dangerously close to lighting them up. The floor is covered in low-shag carpeting, the walls covered in a very yellowed floral wallpaper. The walls are studded with several metal brackets holding candles that have almost burnt through all their wax, the floor covered in piles of melted wax. There is another desk, made of wrought iron worked into a small flat tabletop. There are series of papers placed on top, and a small lead plaque covered in a sigil (best not to look at it). Behind the desk, there is a cracking painting of a younger man, his left eye shielded by bloodied bandages, staring outwards with a crooked grin, their eyes closed with crows feet wrinkles around their smiling eyes. Behind them, there is a painting of. . .someone. The painting is old, and the paint has cracked a bit too much to figure out what it represents. The clothing gathers around yet another hatch; there is a hole where a knot in the wood used to be, big enough for a small brooch to wriggle its way down. The scarves and gloves surround and scurry around the hatch, pacing like animals circling around prey.

A Scarf: LET US DOWN! LET US DOWN!

The boy03/07/2020

Able seems to walk a bit slower through this room, but doesn't give it more thought than it needs. Bandaged still needed to be found. Able kneels in front of this hatch all the same, lifting and heading down. How many floors where there? Did he just move as soon as one floor got too messy? That seemed irresponsible.

they03/07/2020

As Able heads down through the rooms, they all seem to blend together; the miniature clothes colony squirm their way downwards, they illuminate the rooms (usually by candle or gaslight), and they wait for Able to open the next layer. As they descend, there's a pattern of things to note: With each floor, there is always a desk with a chair and a portrait of the bandaged man placed on the wall behind it. The desks themselves, ever different in material composition, seem to get smaller and smaller, but always covered in scraps of paper. Likewise, the portrait behind the desk seems to be older and older, showing a younger and younger bandaged man (less bandages, a brighter face, less wrinkles of age, etc.). With each floor, the room seems to have less and less stuff; while the uppermost floors had extravagant things, the lower levels have less shelves, less cabinets, and less evidence of nonsensical designs. Eventually, after seven floors, the hatch opens up to a long ladder pouring down into a tall, tall room. Able can hear sniffling echoing in the large room, the smell of wine wafting through the hatch, and the sound of the bandaged man in the pitch black room.

The Bandaged: -Slurring slightly; choking.- . . .I don'. . .what can I. . ? . . .ah'm gonna d'hoo. . .

The miniature clothes colony match up to Able's ankles, clinging to him.

A Pair of Gloves: WE CAN'T USE STAIRS. BRING US DOWN, PLEASE.

A Brooch: HELP US DOWN!.

March 8, 2020

The boyLast Sunday at 11:22 AM

Able seems to ignore the clothing mostly, starting down the ladder. He seemed to be less angry than he was when he started. He was possibly just more disappointed than mad, but even that was diminished as he kept moving.

Able: I'm coming down!

theyLast Sunday at 12:08 PM

Able's voice echoes in the chamber; he can hear the whimpering growing for a moment, before it quiets again. The clothes colony cling to Able's ankles, squirming as Able descends down the ladder. The room is nearly dark, illuminated only by the smallest of windows at the bottom; outside, there is the light of the Bazaar shining into the room and lighting it up in rectangular amber swatches. It's hard to see the walls, but they look very old, and the room smells of mildewed paper; the floor is made of old carpeting, the fibers frayed and torn up, and there are pieces of dried, curled paint scattered about on the floor from a myriad of pictures placed on the wall. There is a small, student desk with a rickety wooden chair, the tabletop covered in a loose fabric piled on with a small bundle of papers held together by paper ("The Implications of the Correspondence [First Draft]"). Behind the desk, there is a single painting; a cracked, fading picture of a young man, eyes clear and face slightly wrinkled by the sun, squatting among lush green and golden fields and holding a young, curly-haired girl. Behind the two is a tall, tan woman, hair curled in a tight frizzy bunch and radiating out like a soft brown cloud. Underneath the desk, there is a soft, quiet whimpering.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; scared.- . . .i'sh not. . .I can't figure it ou'h. . .w. . .where di'h they go? . .

The clothes colonies around Able's ankles perk up, jumping off of his ankles and falling with a screech.

A Pair of Gloves: HE IS BACK! YOU WILL DELIGHT IN WEARING US!

A Coat: HE SHALL COMFORT IN OUR VOICES!

A Brooch: HE WILL ENJOY OUR COMPANY!

The boyLast Sunday at 5:21 PM

Able reaches the bottom of the ladder, stepping off quietly. He walks towards the desk slowly, before sitting on the floor next to it.

Able: Are you alright?

He doesn't know what else to say. It wasn't as if the bandaged man had given him much to work with.

March 9, 2020

theyLast Monday at 7:09 PM

The bandaged man groans, lifting their head up; in the dim illumination of the room, Able can see that the bandaged around his face are looser. The face of dim eyes and a carnal fear, reflected in the Bazaar's brassy hues, shine back at Able for a moment before he turns his head, pushing their head into the wooden walls of the desk's underside.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; whimpering.- N. . .nnhho. . .noo'h, don't look'h at me. . .

The miniature clothes colonies skitter on the ground, encircling the bottom of the desk.

A Pair of Gloves: RAGS! RAGS!

A Brooch: LISTEN TO OUR VOICES!

The bandaged man whimpers, curling up and pushing their face harder into the desk, kicking aside one of the clothes colonies.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- Nnho. . .go away. . .le'h me sleep'h here. . ..

The boyLast Monday at 7:22 PM

Able sighs, scooting under the desk with the bandaged man, pushing himself in.

Able: Did you find out anything interesting about the snow?

theyLast Monday at 7:28 PM

The bandaged man lifts their head, looking at Able and covering their head.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- N-nnohh. . .

The bandaged man pushes lightly at Able's face before giving up, their arm going limp.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- . . .n. . .no. . .din'h find anything. . .I didn't get anything'h. . .I lookd'h for so long. . .

The bandaged man chokes up slightly, holding a half-empty bottle of wine over their head as they cover their eyes.

The Bandaged: -Quiet.- A'h. . .a'h didn't find anything. . .what'm I gonna do. . .

The boyLast Monday at 7:32 PM

Able takes the bottle from the bandaged man, though a bit less forcefully than he usually would.

Able: Didn't I tell you to lay off the wines? This stuff isn't good for research.

Able sets the bottle to the side, looking at the bandaged man.

Able: Do you want to tell me how much you learned? Anything, it doesn't have to be something grand.

theyLast Monday at 7:48 PM

The bandaged man relinquishes the bottle without much force, lying on the ground pathetically.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- Ah, I. . .it's not edible. . .hurt bad. . .it mutates'h, like odious air. . .it's organic. I can't tell what it is. . .

The bandaged man props themselves up a little, looking at Able.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- I. . .it make'sh you really sad. . .really sad'h. . .if you distill it, i'h makes you cry, a-and you get new idea'sh. . .

The bandaged man lowers their head, gripping their head and choking on a cough.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; whimpering.- A-ah. . .a'h remembered tha'h I had a. . .a littl'h girl. . .an' a beautiful. . .a wif'h. . .r-right there, see. . ?

The bandaged man raises a hand weakly, pointing at the old, scattered painting in the back of the room.

The boyLast Monday at 7:50 PM

Able looks over, furrowing his brow.

Able: So... where did they go?

theyLast Monday at 7:55 PM

The bandaged man chokes on a slobber, covering their face again and staining their bandages with tears.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; loudly.- A'h don't know!

The bandaged man curls up tighter under the desk, whimpering.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; quieter.- . . .a'h. . .a'h don't know where they went. . .I was'h. . .I went down first. . .t. . .they didn't come. . .

The miniature clothes colonies skitter around the bandaged man's ankle, lightly latching onto it.

A Pair of Gloves: SHHHH! WE ARE HERE!

A Brooch: -Pricking into the bandaged man's ankle.- WE ARE HERE FOR YOU! WE WILL SUPPORT YOU!

A Scarf: -Wrapping around the bandaged man's ankle.- SOOTHE! SOOTHE!

The bandaged man whimpers, pushing harder into the desk leg.

The Bandaged: -Slurring; quietly.- . . .n.. .nnno'h. . .don. . .don'h look a'h me. . .please, I don't want you t' see me like this'h. . .a'hm better than this, pleas'h. . .

The boyLast Monday at 8:03 PM

Able: You are fine.

Able pulls the bandaged man up and into his lap, a half hearted attempt in making him more comfortable.

Able: Tell me more about the snow, mh?

Able pushes some of the bandages away from the man's face, so he can see him a bit more clearly.

theyLast Monday at 8:09 PM

The bandaged man whimpers, sitting back; the bandaged fall easily, showing a face covered in scars and cuts along the cheeks (as if they were carved off) and lips wet from melted snow.

The Bandaged: -Whimpering.- . . .i-is. . .is very interesting. It's not like snow, it's like. . .it's like if you scraped something off of a creature. . .it's. . .t-the telescope'h, you know? It's not. . .crystals. . .it's like. . .nails. . .rough. . .and messy. . .

The bandaged man leans against Able, whimpering.

The Bandaged: -A bit more clear; still lisping.- . . .you know, it's. . .it's mostly around the Bazaar, that y' see it. . .it's all the same structure, though. . .same organic pattern, under a lens? Does. . .does that make sense'sh. . ?

***

The boyLast Monday at 8:11 PM

Able rubs the bandaged man's back, nodding as he speaks.

Able: As if it was made by something alive?

Able wanted to keep him engaged, at least to keep his mind more clear.

theyLast Monday at 8:21 PM

The bandaged man sits back, wiping their eyes as they straighten their posture. The clothes colonies "sit" around the bandaged man, as if they were a bunch of students rapt at attention.

The Bandaged: -Slurring.- Yes! . .y-yes'h, it's. . .it's organic, and it's not quite clear wha'h made it. . .I. . .I wonder if I could point. . .like. . .like a telescope up, an'h see where it come'sh from. . .I think. . .

The boyLast Monday at 8:23 PM

Able: You could certainly try. Maybe you'll find out it is the droppings of some great beast.

Able jokes, smiling a bit.

theyLast Monday at 8:27 PM

The Bandaged: No! No, it's. . .it's not droppings. . .I don't think. . .i'h. . .is just like. . .shaved ice. . .but not. . .

The bandaged man gestures vaguely.

The Bandaged: . . .I. . .it's salty. . .and salt is a wast'h material, but. . .I don't think it's. . .feces. . .

[

8:28 PM

]

The bandaged man ponders for a moment before swabbing at their mouth.

The Bandaged: -Quietly; slurring.- . . .di'h I eat'h melted droppings?.

The boyLast Monday at 8:30 PM

Able looks very seriously at the bandaged man.

Able: Maybe you did.

He then laughs, patting the man on the shoulder.

Able: But tell me more, I want to hear what you've discovered.

theyLast Monday at 8:31 PM

The bandaged man drags their tongue across the bundle of bandages on their palm, groaning.

The Bandaged: No'h! Eugh, get. . .get water! Give that. . .what, is tha'h juice?

The bandaged man gestures at the bottle Able set aside, apparently forgetting what was in it.

The Bandaged: -Spitting.- Quick, jus'h hand it over!.