2019-06-06 2019-06-16 - Where In The World Did Carver (Alistair) Go?

The interior of the castle court was remarkably unsettling in its sheer size. The slightly raised circular stone platform he was stood upon in the center of the room was the only thing to receive any light from a small hole in the ceiling, which easily sat at over eighty feet above the gathered crowd's head. The platform itself was also over-sized for Carver's stature, the deep red stains seeped into dull grey stone spreading out into tendrils that reached the full ten foot diameter before running down the smoothed edge to the floor another two feet below.

The platform was one of four circles in this room. The center-most. Next, the lower circle of stone served as a no-man's-land between the prisoner and the crowd. The third circle was that of a wall, raising about a foot above the fourth and final and adorned in equidistant places with tall, towering statues of various figures, all adorned in various and masterfully crafted flowing robes. The fact they were all holding weapons gave Carver some reason for concern, but he was currently very much in a state of 'one problem at a time.'

Which brings us to his main problem. That fourth circle. Staggered seating that brought to mind the memory of bleachers to the one and only human in the room's mind. He could turn in any direction he wished and easily see at minimum one hundred... people. Sat. Watching him. Some whispered to those seated next to them. Some said nothing at all. Standing in front of that seating arrangement, organised much like the statues stood ornately-armored figures toned in dull grey and blood red, with blades at their hips and bows in their hands.

When he had been walked in to this room, those bows had been raised. Carver really didn't want them to do that again. They'd been pointed in his direction for over a minute, and not a single hand had started to shake from the strain.

It was the woman seated in the only single chair in the room, positioned up against a small dip in that dividing wall who had made them lower their weapons. With a single gesture from her white-robed hand. Carver was trying to ignore that the fingers on those hands were about seven inches long, and each adorned with black, almost chitinous nails that each ended in a point he was certain were sharp enough to rend flesh like tissue paper.

Her face, like the faces of all those in the room bar him, was pale of skin. Almost translucent, with the dark lines of the blood vessels beneath occasionally visible as whatever coursed through these beings veins did just that. In Carver's mind, It lent each and every one of the figures a certain resemblance to a fractured mirror. Not unnerving in the least. The pitch black eyes that reflected the sliver of light that fell in a thin strip didn't add to the hairs risen on the back of his neck at all, and anyone who said otherwise was a liar and a charlatan.

Carver was aware of the tic that showed when he was nervous. It was subtle, and he only broke it out when things were really dire, but a subtle brushing of the tip of his nose meant his head could glance down for just a second to completely ignore everything around him and recenter whatever mental state he was currently going through. He was acutely aware that he was about to do just this. He wasn't planning on stopping it. Unfortunately, the heavy metal shackles around each of his wrists that showed signs of rust across the dull grey iron did. They were chained to the floor.

Which is why he merely lowered his head and closed his eyes as the woman on the throne spoke, letting her words fade from his ears as he tried to remember the events that had lead him to this damn place.

"-used: of Trespass on Royal Property, Larceny, Petty Larceny, Intent to Incite Public Disorder, Inciting Public Disorder, ̨Ún̨la͝wfu͡l Us͡e͘ ̸o͜f̸ R̵he҉t̴or̷ic, Ą̕͜͜t̸҉t͞͡e̵̵̕͠m͘p̸̶t̀͟i̕͟҉͝ņ̸g͏̢́͡ ̶̶́͢t̸̨͜o҉̛ ̸̷̛͝͝T̕͏̴̨r̵̸̨̛͢ą̛̕͟ņs҉͟p̸̛͡ǫ̶̡͢͟r̨͢t̴̀͠ ̵̸̸͟D̸̡a̸͟͞í̶̶̕͠ŗ͜͞y̛͠͡ ̴̶̀͝͝O̷̧͏͞v̵͘͜͟ę̵̛͢r̶̴̶͘͞ ́̀P̧r̵ǫ́̕͜͡p͏̢̧̛̀e̡͜͢͞ŕ͘͢t̡͡͏y̧͠ ̨́B͟͠ơ͜͟ư͠ǹd̵̡a҉҉̷̵̡r̸̶͡i҉̴̨̡͠e͡͡҉s͞-"

It had all gone wrong when Carver had grabbed the girl's wrist. She, like everyone else in this damn place, had the translucent skill and black void eyes. Unlike everyone else in this damn place, had actually smiled upon seeing him at her door. She wasn't wearing the usual soft grey hood of most of the local peasantry and so obviously had decided on a different tactic than pulling one over her face and Completely. Bloody. Ignoring. Him. Or, as it turned out, she didn't see a stranger. She saw a way out of here. Which, ironically, was exactly what Carver was looking for. He didn't know how many days it had been since he fell asleep in the motel.

They had a plan to reach the border. She had hidden him from the patrolling guard asking about the stranger. He figured she could be trusted.

And then she went and asked about the story of the hollow man and the girl that watched.

Carver admitted, running through the sea of dead, white trees and falling into a roll as his foot hooked a root for the second time in his harried sprint, that his initial reaction of grabbing his companion and asking 'What the shitting fuck are you?' may not have been the best instinct to go with.

But right now? Running seemed to be doing him pretty well. That was a good instinct to go with. The yells were closer now, sure. But they'd been 'closer' for a few minutes. There was still a chance he could actually make it to the border before the patrol got in firing range.

He even avoided the third ankle-breaking root of his harried sprint. It was an awkward jump, but one that only cost him a few seconds. Not nearly enough for the patrol to gain any particular headwa-

Carver's head rested on the crook of an upturned arm, his eyes counting the brickwork that made up the ceiling of the small cell he occupied. It was the sixth time today he'd done this, and not once had he come to the same answer twice in a row. Forty-Eight. Sixty-Two. Three. Yeah, that one was a weird one.

The old gauze patches that sat across his upper thigh and just below his left collarbone were basically useless now. They'd soaked deep red over time, not once been cleaned, and weren't even all that necessary given the more... 'glimmery' methods of the court physician.

And like the flea-ridden, worryingly-stained rags he'd been given to wear, they itched.

Eventually, Carver sighed as he reached yet another new number of Three Hundred and Eighty, and with the sun setting through the small barred slit of what passed for a window in this tower, pulled his small hidden iron nail from part of his bed frame to gouge a new line in the wall beside his bed. Unlike the brickwork, this number only changed when he willed it.

Fifty-Four scratched lines currently sat gouged in the brickwork beside him.

Eighty-Six scratched lines currently sat gouged in the brickwork beside the bed of Carver's cell.

The food here did not agree with him. Carver figured it probably wasn't meant to, what with the whole 'prisoner' deal. He felt weak. His wounds had long since healed completely, and the gauze pads lay untouched for weeks in one corner of the small room, but not all weakness is purely physical. His only social contact had been when the guards came once a day to turn over the room. They never said a word. They never even looked directly at his face. After the first three week's he'd stopped trying to look at theirs, too. He'd stop trying to start up a conversation long before that. Spearpoint negotiation was not his forté. Well, it was. Not with these guys. And not any more.

Once they'd left for the evening on day Eighty-Seven, Carver finished up scratching his new line, placing the nail back where it sat beneath the bed before he made his way over to the small slit of a window.

Outside, he could see only forest. And Carver felt ready. Placing his arms through the metal bars that separated him, the man linked together his fingers on the other side, feeling the soft relief of a cool wind on his bare skin as he closed his eyes to focus on a similar, but vastly different place.

Firefly Forest. Gray Harbor. Washington. The motel bed he'd fallen asleep in. It should be as easy here as anywhere. Nothing more than a soft inhale, an even softer exhale, and the unmistakable feeling of being not here any mo-

The jolt of pain that ran down his spine sent his fingers unclasping and the man crumpling down to the floor came as a surprise, and when the guards burst in through the door less than a minute later, Carver was still screaming.

"-̕O҉̶̶̨̕ś͏s̨͘͜͠e͜͜s͏͡͠s҉̷̕͢i̵o̢ņ͡ ́o̷̧̨f͢͜͞͝ ̶̷B͏̀̕͞i̧͡ò̵͏͏l͜o̸g̶ì̴͜ć̵a͢l̛ ̵͘͠Ma̛͟t̶t̨͝e͏̸r͟ w̵͡it̷h͏̛ ͢͠I͏n҉͘t̵͘e͟͢͞nt̸͘͘ t̡̀o ̀Di̸str̸͝ibu̧te͘,̷ ̧and l͟as̀t, but most certainly not least, Conspiracy to Commit Regicide. You shall listen when I speak!"

The rope around the woman's neck twitched, and the frayed ends flicked out towards the center of the room. Carver winced immediately, and the turn to one side he follows through from the immediate reaction is nothing more than a feeble attempt to protect the old wound on his shoulder from taking her metaphorical wake-up slap any harder than it has to.

After a moment, he turned back to face the throne, inhale. Exhale. Ignore the slow spread of red across your chest.

If you can't dazzle them with your brilliance-

"My apologies! I must assure the most venerable audience gathered here that I was, indeed, listening." Carver's voice echoed. The stone walls of this domed cylinder room were made for acoustics, and by God did he intend to use them. His arms even attempted to spread out in as theatrical a fashion as he could muster, but that was cut short with the sharp sound of clinking chains that reminded him exactly of his situation. His smile grew, and he took what small step forward his bindings would allow. "And it must be said, your majesty, that you do indeed spin a fine tale. However, I must say that my profession could be described as 'Master of Bullshittery', so I know it when I hear it. And I-" His hand attempted to jab into the air. The chain rattled. "-have not seen a single goddamned dairy animal since I accidentally ended up in this shithole."

"You will be sile-" The Noose Queen's voice started, then halted for just a moment. Her voice, to describe in unholy simile, was not unlike that of crushed ice sliding from the bottom of an empty tumbler headed towards your mouth. Smooth, suprisingly soft, but liable to give you a headache if you were exposed to the end result suddenly.

Her face, with what few distinct features could be found to show expression, looked confused for a moment. "What?"

"You said 'Attempting to Transport Dairy Over Property Boundaries.'" The smile on Carver's face stretched out even more as he spoke, seizing on that moment's hesitation like it was a lifeline. He ignored the slowly growing white-noise clamor from the gathered audience when took one more step forward, the gain given an extra yank and pulled forward to the very limit of it's reach as he moved. His eyes settled on hers, and he gave a small flick forward of his head. A few strands of hair settled over his eyes, and he was suddenly very glad that, for whatever reason, they'd decided to tidy and trim him for his trial. "And yet, I did not see a single dairy animal in your land in the time between my unfortunate arrival and my even-more-so unfortunate 'arrest.' I see your law enforcers also choose to shoot first and ask questions never."

His tongue clicked. "More things change..."

"You speak nonsense and falsehoods." About halfway into Carver's little show, The Noose Queen seemed to regain some measure of composure. If she had eyelids, her eyes would have narrowed. Those long, pointed nails clicked softly against the arm of her throne as she drummed each finger individually against what seemed to be petrified wood. "The charges do not matter. What matters is your guilt. And you..." She turned her head to look to one of the guards that lined the perimeter, the nearest two her being more ornate in decoration than any of the others.

That is to say, his helmet was taller. The only real sign of rank you need.

"Alistair Carver, Your Majesty. At least, that is what he told us." The captain reported.

"Alistair Carver. You are guilty. You reek of it." The Noose Queen sniffed the air as if to prove her point. Many of the crowd joined in. The acoustics of the room made it something of an experience for the one lone human. "And you expect to... what? Prove your innocence with incessant rambling?" She asked before her clawed hand turned over and her nails dragged through the air in an invitation for him to speak once more.

And let it be known. Inviting Alistair Carver to speak is a terrible idea. Even for royalty.

Especially for Royalty.

He grinned. No soft smile, not any more. This was no longer a time for that.

"A multi-faceted question, Your Majesty." Carver replied, and he took a moment or two to shake out his hands and stretch out his neck from side to side. It almost looked like someone getting ready to go for a brisk morning jog. "You yourself say I reek of guilt. And you are most likely right. I do not know what guilt smells like, but I have plenty of experience feeling it." He paced as he spoke, even going as far as to look away from The Noose Queen and throw a few glances to the gathered crowd. And more noticeably, the gathered guards; their bows still lowered. "I have guilt about a friend, long since lost. I have guilt about an acquaintance, newly met. I have guilt about opportunities squandered, dreams forgotten, and calls for aid ignored."

A full circle of his platform completed, Carver re-settled his gaze on to the Monarch-In-Residence, clasping his hands together in a sudden clap that echoed off the walls, and even caused a few members of the audience to shift suddenly in their seats. "BUT! I do not have the guilt of a Royal leader, and the secrets they must keep from their people. I do not have the guilt of asking the wrong questions. Or expecting the wrong answers. I do not have the guilt of reinforcing my prison tower but assuming that I would be defense enough for my court room."

He glanced down at his shackles for just a second, and then returned his gaze to meet the black, empty eyes of his interrogator. The grin stayed. "No." He said softly. It still echoed. "I do not expect to prove my innocence with incessant rambling. I'm guilty as shit, love."

He winked.

"I was buying time."

The shackles dropped from around his wrists as The Noose Queen began to reach forward, her mouth opening unnaturally wide to scream.

As he concentrated, the bows around him began to rise.

As he exhaled, nine arrows; points honed, wood stout, fletching made to perfection were loosed.

As he smiled, a young woman standing behind his left shoulder blew the queen a kiss.

Nine arrows clattered against stonework, each crossing the empty space Carver occupied milliseconds ago.

Carver bounced off of his bed.

Or he woke up with a start. It was hard to tell. Naked as the day he was born, just the way he fell asleep four months ago.

His hand came up to wipe at his eyes. His shoulder screamed as he did it, and the hand that went to check on that came back wet, warm, and stained red. Without even taking a moment to wipe the blood anywhere, he reached out for his phone, the light from his screen causing a grunt of pain as it seared his retina for a second.

He blinked.

"Thank fuck for that. Been a little over a week? Wait, when the fuck did I fall asle-Eh. Room's paid in advance, everything's koshe-"

His eyes noticed the number of missed messages.

"....Fuck."