The Master
November 17th 2010 01:20
Deep underground, Kurong walked purposefully toward an antechamber. It was dark and musty and the room smelled foul. Cobwebs were in every corner and large, menacing spiders scuttled along waiting for a helpless morsel to become ensnared in their webs. Blood faintly covered parts of the brick wall, each streak signifying the end of something. If Kurong had the power to hear voices, he’d hear the screams and wails of people long since dead. However, he did not and could not hear these voices. To him, this room was a glimpse into what lay beyond in the larger hall.
Kurong was not alone. With him was a short, muscular man who had been in his mid-thirties when he was made. He had rich, grass green eyes, high cheekbones, and a bulbous nose. His skin was tan, but not overly tan. His hair was short and dyed black. The man’s natural hair color was more of an auburn color, but at this point in the story that was irrelevant. What was relevant was that this man was Kurong’s sire. Tomasz had seen many things in his one thousand years, the fall of Rome, the fall of the Ottoman Empire, hell even the fall of the Napoleonic Empire. None of these really mattered to Tomasz except the Ottomans.
He recalls they were a savage bunch of Neanderthals, worse than the Mongols, in fact. He remembers their women were humble looking with their warts and stringy hair. Man, was he glad they didn’t win in the end. In the end, everyone lost. He remembers being dragged away from his little farm in what is now Poland and thrown into a squalid hole in the wall called a cell. He was beaten constantly and lost hope of ever returning home to his wife, Magda and their children. He recalls how scared he was and how Piotr would have to be the man now. Piotr was only nine years old. Their other two children, Izabella and Janusz, were three. The little twins were barely old enough to know who their father was and in time, they would forget if he didn’t get out of this God forsaken place.
Tomasz had been yelling in the cell for what seemed like days. His voice was almost gone and his arms and hands ached maliciously with all the banging on the door and walls. People would come in from time to time to talk to him in some bizarre language. When he couldn’t understand them, they promptly beat him senselessly. After the beating, they’d have a chamber maid come tend his wounds and feed him. Many times the maid would make sure he could see her ample bosom, but when he refused her every time she’d stalk off out of the room. The last time anyone came in was four days ago. He was very thirsty and was beginning to think they had forgotten all about him.
The next day Tomasz was lying on the ground, unable to stand any longer. He was weak and hadn’t been able to move. He slipped in and out of consciousness, having crazy dreams. In one of these dreams he saw a chamber maid come in to his cell. She began dancing, pirouetting to a tune only she could hear. The movements were so graceful and beautiful that he began to weep. She walked over to where he sat in the corner and knelt beside him. She whispered softly to him.
“Soon, you will be free of this place and you will be reunited with your family.”
He stared up at her, hopefully.
“The savages here will be vanquished, the Hungarians are on their way. Soon, my dear, you will live again.”
“What is your name?” Tomasz asked.
“Names are unimportant, but if you must call me something, then you may call me Abyzou.”
Kurong was not alone. With him was a short, muscular man who had been in his mid-thirties when he was made. He had rich, grass green eyes, high cheekbones, and a bulbous nose. His skin was tan, but not overly tan. His hair was short and dyed black. The man’s natural hair color was more of an auburn color, but at this point in the story that was irrelevant. What was relevant was that this man was Kurong’s sire. Tomasz had seen many things in his one thousand years, the fall of Rome, the fall of the Ottoman Empire, hell even the fall of the Napoleonic Empire. None of these really mattered to Tomasz except the Ottomans.
He recalls they were a savage bunch of Neanderthals, worse than the Mongols, in fact. He remembers their women were humble looking with their warts and stringy hair. Man, was he glad they didn’t win in the end. In the end, everyone lost. He remembers being dragged away from his little farm in what is now Poland and thrown into a squalid hole in the wall called a cell. He was beaten constantly and lost hope of ever returning home to his wife, Magda and their children. He recalls how scared he was and how Piotr would have to be the man now. Piotr was only nine years old. Their other two children, Izabella and Janusz, were three. The little twins were barely old enough to know who their father was and in time, they would forget if he didn’t get out of this God forsaken place.
Tomasz had been yelling in the cell for what seemed like days. His voice was almost gone and his arms and hands ached maliciously with all the banging on the door and walls. People would come in from time to time to talk to him in some bizarre language. When he couldn’t understand them, they promptly beat him senselessly. After the beating, they’d have a chamber maid come tend his wounds and feed him. Many times the maid would make sure he could see her ample bosom, but when he refused her every time she’d stalk off out of the room. The last time anyone came in was four days ago. He was very thirsty and was beginning to think they had forgotten all about him.
The next day Tomasz was lying on the ground, unable to stand any longer. He was weak and hadn’t been able to move. He slipped in and out of consciousness, having crazy dreams. In one of these dreams he saw a chamber maid come in to his cell. She began dancing, pirouetting to a tune only she could hear. The movements were so graceful and beautiful that he began to weep. She walked over to where he sat in the corner and knelt beside him. She whispered softly to him.
“Soon, you will be free of this place and you will be reunited with your family.”
He stared up at her, hopefully.
“The savages here will be vanquished, the Hungarians are on their way. Soon, my dear, you will live again.”
“What is your name?” Tomasz asked.
“Names are unimportant, but if you must call me something, then you may call me Abyzou.”
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