(no subject)

[aesmael]

Problems could be solved.

There was an abandoned building on a street corner in the warehouse district. It was old, falling apart. It looked as though it should be torn down for the good of the public. It looked as though in a week that would not be necessary.

There was a place in the front of the building, just above ground level, where there was a slight gap in the collection of wooden boards that currently masqueraded as ‘wall’. Nothing unusual about that, except that this was the spot.

Take a coin. Take a piece of paper. Write someone’s name on the paper, wrap the coin in it and wedge the whole thing in the spot. If you checked the next day, both coin and paper would be gone. In a few days, so would the person whose name you had written down.

It was not that simple.

Wait another few days, and your coin and paper would be returned to you. Perhaps you would find them in your pocket as you walked down the street, or maybe on your pillow when you woke in the morning. It didn’t matter. The person’s name would be gone, with something written in its place. A number, a place, a time. You would go to this place, at that time, and you would leave the number of coins specified. The same coins you had wrapped the note in.

No one knew what would happen if you did not. No one wanted to know.

It was not always a number. Sometimes it was the name of something you owned, or even a loved one. Sometimes it would be your name.

There was a man. Not many people knew him, and most of those only briefly. Usually at the end of their life.

This is not to say that no one ever saw him, they just never met him. As far as they were concerned he was just another face in the crowd.

This is how he preferred things.

He had no name, only a title. A label, if you will. To those who knew him, and continued to know him, he was the Vhrydal.

The Vhrydal was, so far as appearance goes, an unremarkable man. His was neither tall nor short. His hair was a close-cropped brown and his features plain. His eyes were brown too, a deep liquid brown that would have reminded people of puppies, were it not for his face.

It was not that there was anything wrong with his face, exactly, but he gave the impression that expression was something he had never got the hang of. A blank face, then. Not the blankness of an expert gambler, for that face requires putting on. This was a face that was worn when its owner had nothing better to do. Most people failed to notice any of this, of course. People seldom notice anything that would disturb them unduly.

On this particular morning the Vhrydal was making his way through the maze, shopping. It had been a while since the last time anyone needed his services and the glove was getting tattered. It was even possible to see an occasional glint of metal through it, but most people would just assume he was wearing rings.

He hoped someone would try to relieve him of them. It would make his choice much easier.

The Vhrydal’s attention was caught by a commotion behind him. Some hired muscle was pushing its way through the crowd. It was nothing concerning him, so he returned his attention to the task at hand.

Just when he had spotted a likely victim, a youth of perhaps twenty years stumbled past him, catching himself on the Vhrydal’s right hand. He felt a brief flash of irritation at the distraction and considered harvesting the boy, but his hands were too small and delicate. They would never fit.

He held his hand up for inspection, still walking, still trying to reacquire his target. The glove was torn even more than before, and there was blood on it. At least the youth had paid the price for his carelessness, but now he would have to hide his hand or risk discovery.

Change of plans.

At the first opportunity he slipped into one of the Maze’s innumerable side alleys, the high walls making it dark like evening, though the hour was barely noon. After just a few twists and turns he came across another youth, this one much nearer his size and dressed in fine clothes, a richly embroidered navy blue shirt with a well-cut coat and pants, though the Vhrydal felt it unlikely that the boy was a noble.

It seemed he was in luck. The boy was obviously drunk, despite the early hour. He too stumbled into the Vhrydal as he went past but, unlike the other, paused long enough to slur out the words “Wash were ya goin’, jerk!”

The Vhrydal let him past without comment, then turned and followed silently. He caught him up quickly, grabbed him and slammed him against the alley wall, making sure to clamp his left hand over the youth’s mouth.

Terror had apparently sobered him, but the Vhrydal did not care. He stuck the boy’s throat with his right hand, taking care to slice nothing but vocal chords with the sharp metal edges.

Now it was safe to remove his left hand for, though the boy could still in principle shriek, his larynx was so clogged with blood and saliva that it was impossible for him to manage anything more than a low frothy gurgle.

The boy was too shocked to do other than clutch at his mangled throat. He was certainly in no condition to run. Now that the Vhrydal’s hands were free he set about the business of removing the boy’s clothing, taking care not to get any more blood than was necessary on them.

Now that he had the youth stripped to his underwear it was time to get to work. He took out his knife and set about methodically peeling the skin from the youth’s right hand, holding the arm in place with his right. The boy, naturally, tried to resist, so he found it necessary early on to put aside his work and, with the right hand, slice clean through the tendons in hid left wrist. The boy’s legs had already been tied together.

Skin off, he pulled the old glove from his hand to reveal the gleaming metal skeleton within. At the sight of this the boy tried to wriggle himself deeper into the dirt of the alley. The Vhrydal cleaned the blood off the inside of the skin and then applied the dye he had developed just for this, one that would give the dead skin a healthy colouration. Now he sewed the pieces together over his mechanical hand with the boy still watching.

That was the hard part over with, now all that remained was disposal of the body. The Vhrydal did not want anyone finding the skinned hand, so he had to get rid of the rest too. Patiently he dismantled the body before stowing it somewhere it would not be immediately noticeable. Then he ferried it to the river, one piece at a time.

There was a party that night, with dinner and dancing and all the best people. Among the guests there was a man in his early thirties, striking but not especially handsome with his long pale face and prominent cheekbones. He had black hair drawn back in a queue and the deepest brown eyes. He wore a richly embroidered navy blue shirt with a cream jacket and matching trousers, well made but nowhere near as extravagant as some of the outfits on display.

“Excuse me, but I don’t believe I recognize you Mr…?” He turned to face the speaker, glass in hand. She was revealed to be an attractive young noblewoman with emerald green eyes and long chestnut tresses. Her face suggested a pleasant personality and she wore a scandalous deep blue gown that exposed her shoulders for all to see. He gave her an easy smile that seemed to start with his eyes. They positively sparkled. “Masoni, Jarl Masoni. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My father named me Clarissia Dezchardine Oltzig, but everyone calls me Clare.” She giggled, and he decided that she was either very stupid or very clever. “I recognize that name,” he said, still smiling, “You must be Baron Oltzig’s daughter.”

“I keep telling him that, but he doesn’t want to listen.” He chuckled politely, but she continued speaking almost immediately. “You know who I am, but I still don’t know you. I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.”

He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “I’m not, but I just couldn’t help myself, so here I am. Don’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Why ever not? This is my cousin’s party and only important people are invited.” She was pouting now, like a spoiled child. He suspected that most people would do anything to make her smile come back.

“Oh, but I am important,” he said, still whispering. Clare’s answer showed a cautious brightening of her manner. “Really? How so?”

“I’m the man who can make your problems disappear.”

“Wonderful! You get to stay after all! I would have been ever so sorry to see you go.” He decided that she was clever after all, though she would need to learn when to drop the brat act. Perhaps he would teach her, if he found her suitable, but tonight he would settle for convincing the Baron’s daughter that she found him useful.

Comments

[udonman.livejournal.com]

very cool hon

[coniferous_you]

Holy mad-slicin' modernism Tricia!

Okay, the description of Vhrydal had me thinking the character of Verloc from Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent , only in his unassuming nature though. (Verloc is more lethargic). However, in the second half of the story you show a bizarre talent for displaying meticulously crafted torture scenes.
Call me crazy, but that particular ability it makes me want to see what would happen if you wrote it into a satire. Yes, a satire in that old-style sense of there being humour, but also an underlying "urk" factor. (Like "A Modest Proposal").
Nevertheless, I think this is a compelling character that you could really use to say something significant if you so required.