Post by rhaxma on Sept 21, 2007 13:24:36 GMT -5
So yes...mistakingly entered this into FlyingPanther's contest, having missed the part about it having to be about one of her characters. *coughs* But here it is still! It's basically a story about Cog's great-great grandfather Clockwork and an encounter he has with a cheshire. Enjoy ;D *goes off to avoid more stoopidness*
-----
It was cool in Corvistowne, the night it happened. A soft drizzle coated the land and the windows of many homes were foggy, created a distorted view for those who wished to look inside. Every so often there would be a surprised shout as a poorly built roof dumped chilled water onto the unlucky inhabitants. And for this reason, Cog's great-great grandfather, Clockwork, a renown member of the family, was glad that he had escaped the nonsensical minds that most Corvistowneians were cursed with. To see an analytical Corvistowne resident was quite peculiar indeed. Many whispered behind Cog's ancestor's back, claiming that he was uncanny and surely had magical skill beyond what he had demonstrated.
Cog's family was never quite clear on what magical skills their grandfather Clockwork had. Some family argued that he never really had any particular skills other than an unsual amount of common sense. Others argued that with a lift of his paw, Clockwork could control the replaced body parts of other mechanics. Whatever skill it was, it has been lost to the family history. However there is no argument about how Clockwork's adventure went.
It was on this foggy, drizzling day that Clockwork hefted a bag of tools upon his back and roamed the streets of Corvistowne. He was a well-off mechanic, despite being a low ranking Club. His reputation usually proceeded him when he went on such walks. On the typical day other Corvistowneians invited him into their homes wanting everything from a roof patched to their own bodies altered. Whatever the reason, be it the rain or the heavy feeling of the air, Clockwork was not greeted on the streets as he was expecting to be. Now, of course, this was quite disappointing to him. He had young children at home and a mate to support. A day of no work, despite savings, rankled him. And perhaps, they say, this was the reason he paid attention to the whispered voice.
It came to him from an alley, deep behind the cluttered housing. For a moment Clockwork passed it off as nothing. Surely an echo managed to escape an underground lab. But as he continued by the voice carried to his ears, stronger and yet softer at the same time. A feminine voice, it seemed to be. Though Clockwork was a good mate to have, a sweet tantalizing female voice still tempted him. He was what he was, and as most others were, meaning that the occassional side affair was acceptable. Clockwork made no habit of it, yet...
The voice spoke soft words, and intrigued, Clockwork made his way down the alley. His nimble Mustelid body worked its way around the typical hazards found in dark entryways. Random filth, needles, and leftover scrap from metal work all shifted around his feet. Finally, then, he beheld a sight that it is said to have given him the white hairs on his face.
There she lay, a lank feline body. But that face! Oh to behold the smile of a Cheshire! Horrifying and seductive all at once. A smile that taunted, teased, and seemed to behold some sort of promise was bared at him. Prodigious canines gleamed in the dull light of a latern, basking the Cheshire female in a soft glow. Her fur was utterly dark, the blackest of the black and without the light, it would have been near impossible to seperate her figure from the shadows on the wall. It could be that she had some markings but in his shock, all Clockwork could see was the gruesome white smile against the black fur. Lazy, hooded eyes watched him. Yellow with an emerald center, they stopped him in his tracks more than her smile did.
"Tick tock, the clock would say," the smile moved languidly, "Tell me, Clockwork, do you tick or tock?"
Cheshires were noted for being not quite right, or so he had heard. So Clockwork tread carefully, a little fearful of that wide smile.
"Neither ahr mebbe both, ma'am," Clockwork found his voice was shaky, "Depends on ya meanin' of tick an' tock."
The Cheshire seemed to be interested in his response, and a paw stroked her chin, "One cannot be both or neither unless one is nothing at all. Thusly, I declare that you tock, for the tick is the quiet echo of a stronger tock. I do not perceive you as being a weaker tick."
Baffled, Clockwork had little to say to that. What the female meant by tick and tock, he wasn't sure. Gently, he put down his pack of tools and settled down on his haunches, watching the waving Cheshire tail move like a silent whip through the darkness. He had come out on business and well...
"Ma'am do yah ha' some business far me?" he settled down into the easy routine of talking trade, "Ah only came this way cause ah thought mebbe you'd have somethin' needin' to be done."
"Why yes, Tock, I do," the eyes narrowed slightly, "I need a hand."
"With what?" No one could have blamed him for a decision.
"Oh Tock, my delightful ignoramus," the grin widened, if that was possible, "For once I am literal."
Before him she rose up what should have been a paw, but there, on her left forearm, was naught but a stump. Fortunately, Clockwork's background and work kept him from gagging at the sight. Whether out of ignorance or plain disregard, the Cheshire had left the wound to try and heal itself. With his keen nose, he could tell even from his distance that the flesh had started to rot. The Cheshire would be lucky to keep her arm. Despite the unusual circumstance, Clockwork's mind went into business mood and it was his turn to stroke his chin.
"Ah ain't a doc, by any means," he said grimly, "But yah might need ah whole new arm."
"An arm for an arm, how quaint my friend, but I hear your words. Give me an arm, then, goodfellow, and make it snappy for my mind is dubious when it comes to your skill and such dubiousness is undoubtedly unwell for good business relations."
What Clockwork thought of her weird, slightly musical is not known. But one could only imagine that it was disconcerting to the ear. What happened next is a well guarded secret. It is known that Clockwork labored well into the damp night working upon the Cheshire. The family says that even though the Cheshire was content to use common metals in the creation of her new arm, Clockwork used the finest of metals. Dark tungsten and brilliant platinum made up the arm. Damond tipped steel for the dangerous claws. Tendons and muscle were saved as best they could so that it would be easier to breathe life into the new limb. Through the cutting away of rotten flesh and fevered skin, the Cheshire required no pain alleviation. Through it all Clockwork declared to his family that she continued to display that enigmatic grin, never flinching, and not once crying out for comfort. When he finished the arm it shone against her fur dully and only the full beauty of what he had created would have been visible in the sun.
But he was never given such a chance to see it. Upon finishing, the Cheshire took but a few moments to get used to the new appendage before declaring his work done. For payment, she left him the skin and fur of her removed arm, and the flesh, rotted and all, she swallowed down into her maw.
"And not a bit of me remains, except for those I safeguard it with," she declared, stroking the Mustelid's cheek with her steel claws. No other payment he asked for; the fur was enough. There was something within Clockwork that warned him against making demands for more payment. What had transpired between the Mustelid and the Cheshire was near magical; to have worked on such a creature satisfied something deep within him. The desire to see something new and unknown to him and most others.
That bit of fur, passed down through the generations, still rests upon Cog's mantel. He leaves it there, uncerimonously, and the untrained eye would think that it would be an everyday curiousity left to rot. But every so often, he thinks back on the story and removes the bit of black pelt from the mantel. Stroking it, he can sometimes be tempted to tell its story.
-----
It was cool in Corvistowne, the night it happened. A soft drizzle coated the land and the windows of many homes were foggy, created a distorted view for those who wished to look inside. Every so often there would be a surprised shout as a poorly built roof dumped chilled water onto the unlucky inhabitants. And for this reason, Cog's great-great grandfather, Clockwork, a renown member of the family, was glad that he had escaped the nonsensical minds that most Corvistowneians were cursed with. To see an analytical Corvistowne resident was quite peculiar indeed. Many whispered behind Cog's ancestor's back, claiming that he was uncanny and surely had magical skill beyond what he had demonstrated.
Cog's family was never quite clear on what magical skills their grandfather Clockwork had. Some family argued that he never really had any particular skills other than an unsual amount of common sense. Others argued that with a lift of his paw, Clockwork could control the replaced body parts of other mechanics. Whatever skill it was, it has been lost to the family history. However there is no argument about how Clockwork's adventure went.
It was on this foggy, drizzling day that Clockwork hefted a bag of tools upon his back and roamed the streets of Corvistowne. He was a well-off mechanic, despite being a low ranking Club. His reputation usually proceeded him when he went on such walks. On the typical day other Corvistowneians invited him into their homes wanting everything from a roof patched to their own bodies altered. Whatever the reason, be it the rain or the heavy feeling of the air, Clockwork was not greeted on the streets as he was expecting to be. Now, of course, this was quite disappointing to him. He had young children at home and a mate to support. A day of no work, despite savings, rankled him. And perhaps, they say, this was the reason he paid attention to the whispered voice.
It came to him from an alley, deep behind the cluttered housing. For a moment Clockwork passed it off as nothing. Surely an echo managed to escape an underground lab. But as he continued by the voice carried to his ears, stronger and yet softer at the same time. A feminine voice, it seemed to be. Though Clockwork was a good mate to have, a sweet tantalizing female voice still tempted him. He was what he was, and as most others were, meaning that the occassional side affair was acceptable. Clockwork made no habit of it, yet...
The voice spoke soft words, and intrigued, Clockwork made his way down the alley. His nimble Mustelid body worked its way around the typical hazards found in dark entryways. Random filth, needles, and leftover scrap from metal work all shifted around his feet. Finally, then, he beheld a sight that it is said to have given him the white hairs on his face.
There she lay, a lank feline body. But that face! Oh to behold the smile of a Cheshire! Horrifying and seductive all at once. A smile that taunted, teased, and seemed to behold some sort of promise was bared at him. Prodigious canines gleamed in the dull light of a latern, basking the Cheshire female in a soft glow. Her fur was utterly dark, the blackest of the black and without the light, it would have been near impossible to seperate her figure from the shadows on the wall. It could be that she had some markings but in his shock, all Clockwork could see was the gruesome white smile against the black fur. Lazy, hooded eyes watched him. Yellow with an emerald center, they stopped him in his tracks more than her smile did.
"Tick tock, the clock would say," the smile moved languidly, "Tell me, Clockwork, do you tick or tock?"
Cheshires were noted for being not quite right, or so he had heard. So Clockwork tread carefully, a little fearful of that wide smile.
"Neither ahr mebbe both, ma'am," Clockwork found his voice was shaky, "Depends on ya meanin' of tick an' tock."
The Cheshire seemed to be interested in his response, and a paw stroked her chin, "One cannot be both or neither unless one is nothing at all. Thusly, I declare that you tock, for the tick is the quiet echo of a stronger tock. I do not perceive you as being a weaker tick."
Baffled, Clockwork had little to say to that. What the female meant by tick and tock, he wasn't sure. Gently, he put down his pack of tools and settled down on his haunches, watching the waving Cheshire tail move like a silent whip through the darkness. He had come out on business and well...
"Ma'am do yah ha' some business far me?" he settled down into the easy routine of talking trade, "Ah only came this way cause ah thought mebbe you'd have somethin' needin' to be done."
"Why yes, Tock, I do," the eyes narrowed slightly, "I need a hand."
"With what?" No one could have blamed him for a decision.
"Oh Tock, my delightful ignoramus," the grin widened, if that was possible, "For once I am literal."
Before him she rose up what should have been a paw, but there, on her left forearm, was naught but a stump. Fortunately, Clockwork's background and work kept him from gagging at the sight. Whether out of ignorance or plain disregard, the Cheshire had left the wound to try and heal itself. With his keen nose, he could tell even from his distance that the flesh had started to rot. The Cheshire would be lucky to keep her arm. Despite the unusual circumstance, Clockwork's mind went into business mood and it was his turn to stroke his chin.
"Ah ain't a doc, by any means," he said grimly, "But yah might need ah whole new arm."
"An arm for an arm, how quaint my friend, but I hear your words. Give me an arm, then, goodfellow, and make it snappy for my mind is dubious when it comes to your skill and such dubiousness is undoubtedly unwell for good business relations."
What Clockwork thought of her weird, slightly musical is not known. But one could only imagine that it was disconcerting to the ear. What happened next is a well guarded secret. It is known that Clockwork labored well into the damp night working upon the Cheshire. The family says that even though the Cheshire was content to use common metals in the creation of her new arm, Clockwork used the finest of metals. Dark tungsten and brilliant platinum made up the arm. Damond tipped steel for the dangerous claws. Tendons and muscle were saved as best they could so that it would be easier to breathe life into the new limb. Through the cutting away of rotten flesh and fevered skin, the Cheshire required no pain alleviation. Through it all Clockwork declared to his family that she continued to display that enigmatic grin, never flinching, and not once crying out for comfort. When he finished the arm it shone against her fur dully and only the full beauty of what he had created would have been visible in the sun.
But he was never given such a chance to see it. Upon finishing, the Cheshire took but a few moments to get used to the new appendage before declaring his work done. For payment, she left him the skin and fur of her removed arm, and the flesh, rotted and all, she swallowed down into her maw.
"And not a bit of me remains, except for those I safeguard it with," she declared, stroking the Mustelid's cheek with her steel claws. No other payment he asked for; the fur was enough. There was something within Clockwork that warned him against making demands for more payment. What had transpired between the Mustelid and the Cheshire was near magical; to have worked on such a creature satisfied something deep within him. The desire to see something new and unknown to him and most others.
That bit of fur, passed down through the generations, still rests upon Cog's mantel. He leaves it there, uncerimonously, and the untrained eye would think that it would be an everyday curiousity left to rot. But every so often, he thinks back on the story and removes the bit of black pelt from the mantel. Stroking it, he can sometimes be tempted to tell its story.
