Saturday, November 5, 2011

Rested, Radiantly Running Royals Roar

Today was an adventure.

Rocinante and I were...procuring some information out of what had once been a locked shed in the backyard of a man who is currently on vacation. Rocinante stood just inside the door, ready to take off if need be. It is a good thing that the shed was a very large one, or else the both of us might not have been able to get in there.

I was just about to pack up and go when a powerful voice said, "Put it down." I stopped moving, but kept all of my things in my hands. The voice spoke again.

"Put. It. Down." Something compelled me to drop the bag. I nearly hit myself later. Why did I drop the bag? Why?

"Now, turn around. Slowly."

I put my hands upon my head and turned until I could see my attacker.

It was a policeman. He was slightly rotund, had light stubble, and a bit of dandruff on his shoulders. The light he held in his left hand was traveling around the shed, and the gun in his right was pointed at a spot directly between my eyes and backwards a little.

"Dispose of your guise," said Rocinante. The policeman laughed, shimmered, and changed.

He was tall, about as tall as me. His hair was jet-black and slicked back as if with grease. Other than that, his cara was bare. His lips were thin and pale, as was the rest of him - the man's skin was as white as, perhaps, a vampire's would be. His eyes were a light red color, almost pink, but with even less color in them than that. The man wore a long black leather coat, had on a black turtleneck, black leather pants, black leather boots...I suppose he's very devoted to black leather. A silvery chain hung around his neck, but I did not get to see what was on the end of it.

The most interesting thing about the man was the sickle he had in his hands. It was long, and gleamed even in the clouded sunlight that broke through the shed's decaying planks.

"Yes, O Knight," said the man. "I like olden weapons myself." The sickle's blade dropped to the ground with a clink and a thud, but the man still gripped its handle well. It was attached with a chain, some sort of sleek mechanism. Coming after the chain in the great journey towards the ground was a small can. It was unmarked, though it looked as if it had once contained coffee.

"Now." He gestured with the sickle, or the handle, anyway. "Pick it up." I nodded and bent down. The can of gunpowder was already peeled open. All I would have to do is rip it back.

"Spread it around." I nodded again.

Then I threw the can at him.

We were out the door in seconds. I heard the man's horrid laughter behind me. "You can't hide!" he screamed. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

The shed exploded. The lawn caught; the house, no doubt, burned. But we were miles away when any officials - any real officials - showed up.

Recuerda, recuerda, el cinco de noviembre,
Pólvora, traición y complot.
No veo un razón porque traición de la pólvora
Debería ser olvidado nunca.