MM-Subliminal [Invite]

[NPC]

~~~~~

The fog was so dense that the riders could barely see past the heads of their horses. The foul weather did not take away from the already dreary mood, either. They had been plodding along at an incredibly slow pace, in part because the road was so treacherous, and in part because the fog made it impossible to predict said treachery. Even if the four visitors had wanted to move faster, the horses would have steadfastly refused any such directions.

When the fog cleared, they found themselves approaching the tall mansion they had been seeking. It looked no better than the fog had. Its façade was cracking in places, and the trees around it were pale and faded, drooping, as though weighed down by some immense sadness. That was appropriate, as the owner of the once great mansion had called these four to his home to help him treat his depression and melancholy.

It had been many years since any of them had seen Roderick. Back then, he had been a robust, vivacious man, younger than his age. Yet the letters he had sent, although presenting a cheerful front, had hinted at a nervousness and deep worry, and a noticeable change in him. It was with this on their minds and hearts as the riders approached the house and dismounted, their horses immediately taken care of by stable hands.

The door was answered by a servant, who led them through winding paths into the house. At the top of the staircase, a glimpse of a fair brunette appeared and passed quickly. She was familiar, but paler than memories would have given her, and her demeanor - or what little they were able to catch of it - also gave away a frailness. But she was gone in a blink, and the journey through the house proceeded until they came to a small study, packed with books, easels, and sheet music. Roderick rose and greeted them with a bright smile, although beneath it, he seemed terribly tired. "Thank you for coming, my friends," he said with another attempt at cheer. "Please, let us sit down. We'll talk."

~~~~~

[Ronan MacGuinness]

I am the mystery
And I am the bringer of the moonless night
I bear the wisdom arcane
I, harbinger from the burrowed isle

Ronan MacGuinness hadn't seen or heard from Roderick in many fortnights, and when he read the invitation, he was overcome with an overwhelming sense of dread that something was not quite right with his friend. The prolonged silence, and the sudden contact, compounded with the desperate urgency of the missive's content...there was a heavy weight of ominous doom in the air.

Melancholy, that was the doom of the hour. It was pressing in on them as they progressed through the fog, forcing their horses onward into the night. It was looming over them as they beheld the site of Roderick's manse. It was in the wind, and the clouds draping over the moon. It was in Ronan's own concerns for his friend. This was no joyful affair, but perhaps, something in the companions could bring the needed comfort to the benighted aristocrat. Ronan hoped so, for he cared deeply for friend and kin alike. The prospect of not lifting the oppressive malaise was not something he would accept.


"Thank you for coming, my friends,"

"Ah, yeah. F'sure. An' we're y'friends, 'less y'forget.", Ronan said with a wry smile, "It has been too long ere ye sent word o' ye're doings our way. 'Tis a fortunate thing ye did at last send for us. Comfort and joy are na' common things in this accursed country."

"Please, let us sit down. We'll talk."

"Aye," Ronan said, " m'arse could use a seat softer than a horse's back."

Ronan took a seat, and sighed. It was a dreary place, but the furniture was welcoming at least. The man hadn't been overly fond of riding on horses in general. He could have made good time on his own, but he didn't want to alarm the others. He wasn't knowledgeable as to whether they would accept the things he could do, and he didn't want to find out the hard way. He was a damn freak, and he didn't like that he couldn't just be like other people. It was a damn shame that he had to be born with a touch of the sidhe...

Such things only ever brought sorrow in the tales of his ancestors.

"Who was that bonny doll I briefly glimpsed?" He asked Roderick, attempting to strike up conversation, as requested. Someone had to offer up a topic, after all.

[Felicia Soler]

Beat now, the hearts that are still
And watch as the day passes on
Beat now, the hearts that are still
Before the dawn comes

They were late in arriving at their ultimate destination because Lilka wouldn't settle for just any riding horse. She preferred to ride pure black draft horses. Given their large stature, people found them intimidating and tended to leave them alone. The horse that she'd chosen to ride stood well over six feet tall at its front shoulder. Its body was stocky and powerful—obviously bred for pulling heavy equipment to till fields.

During her ride to Roderick's home, she was joined by three other travellers, all of them headed in the same direction. She knew that Roderick had many friends; she'd met some of them, but these were faces that she didn't recognise, aside from the face of one of her relatives. She had no idea how they were related; probably by marriage, though their connection was distant.

The fog made navigating the road quite difficult, though they didn't meet with any bandits on their way. If they had, it wouldn't have been much of a problem. She had a unique ability which would have enabled her to dispatch them efficiently and without spilling too much blood.

After a few hours of riding, the atmosphere had cleared considerably, and Lilka was able to see the outline of Roderick's mansion as it crested over the horizon. The structure was in a state of complete disrepair with cracks running up the siding and supporting pillars. Most of its paint had been buffed away by the elements over the years. It was a sad sight for her to see since her memories of the mansion had been of a place that was full of warmth and life. Now it looked like it had been touched by Azriel himself.

The letters she'd received from Roderick which had instigated her sudden trip worried her. His cordial invitation belied what she thought was a profound sadness, and she wanted to see if there was anything that she could do to help.

Lilka dismounted from the large horse with practiced ease and paid the stable hands with a few coins out of the money satchel she kept attached to her belt, next to a long-bladed dagger. She knocked on the door which was answered by one of Roderick's servants who showed them into the large home and led them past a tall staircase. A young woman was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down at them almost fearfully before she disappeared. That was strange, but she paid it little mind. For the moment, she was only here to see Roderick.

The servant vanished once they reached the study and walked in. "Thank you for coming, my friends." His voice may have sounded fearful, but Lilka could read beyond his words and into the expression he wore on his face. He was forlorn and solemn, and he was doing what he could to hide it so as not to cause them further worry. "Please, let us sit down. We'll talk."

She sat down in the seat nearest him and waited for the other travellers to get situated.

"Ah, yeah. F'sure. An' we're y'friends, 'less y'forget." His accent told her that he was most likely Irish. No one was ever really able to place her accent which made blending in to new countries and cultures quite easy. Most people assumed she'd travelled there from somewhere far to the east. English wasn't her first language. Or her second. Or her third. Yet she understood it perfectly well and spoke it with more proficiency than some scholars of her era.

"It has been too long ere ye sent word o' ye're doings our way. 'Tis a fortunate thing ye did at last send for us. Comfort and joy are na' common things in this accursed country."

“Comfort and joy are uncommon just about everywhere.” Roderick had sent for them to lift his spirits, but that didn't mean that she couldn't be a cynic. She watched Ronan sit down in the chair opposite her and groaned when he made an attempt to be jovial.

"Who was that bonny doll I briefly glimpsed?"

“I don't think she's available, or if she is, you'll have to ask Roderick for permission.” She really didn't enjoy being in the company of men. In their day and age, women were viewed as being the gentler, weaker sex, and she really hated to be underestimated. Men who treated her as weak generally didn't last long, and when their surviving family members came looking for their missing brother, husband,or cousin, they were never able to find the body. Lilka allowed a small smile to touch her lips. Roderick was one of very few men she could safely say she would never dispense of without reason.

Довести до белого каления.

ф ф Word count: 861
ф ф Mood: loldrugs i'mma go dleep now.
ф ф Outfit: This
ф ф Lyrics / Quote: Before the Dawn, Gregorian
ф ф Illustrations: none
ф ф Comment / Informational links: None.

[Jordan Mercer]

As if Jordan needed any more reason to be melancholy. Evelyn had been young, and unavailable to him, but he had loved her from afar, and in private, and when she succumbed to consumption - or so her family had it told - it had shredded his heart to pieces, and he was still recovering from that. The letter from Roderick, in that light, seemed almost laughable. How could he bring cheer to his friend when he had so little cheer himself?

Nevertheless, he found himself on a horse that looked like a pony compared to Lilka's, en route to Roderick's family home. The way was as foggy as his mind felt, but, coming within view of the house, he forced himself to at least bear a semblance of cheer. He smiled; it looked crooked on his face. He allowed the smile to fade away.

Entering and passing through the house, he followed at Lilka's heels, both by coincidence and for comfort. She was the only one he recognized, and that helped to improve his mood, though he would never tell her that. At the very least, Jordan thought he might be able to use one of the odd… faculties he possessed. He could hear thoughts and change them. He had never told anyone outside his family about it, for fear the knowledge would spread and lead to him being cast out of society.

A beautiful woman - a brunette, and frail, just like Evelyn - passed so briefly that Jordan thought he had imagined it. There was no resemblance in their faces, but what if his mind was intentionally playing tricks on him. But still, they proceeded onward until Roderick himself greeted him in a somewhat cluttered room, with the best smile he could muster. Jordan shook Roderick's hand before settling into a chair at Roderick's direction.

He shot a glare at Lilka as she spoke, being her usual jaded self, which would do nothing to help Roderick at the moment, or so Jordan felt. But at the Irishman's comment, Jordan frowned and glanced at that man, glad to know he had not been seeing things, and looked to Roderick for a response.

[NPC]

His countenance may have seemed false, but Roderick was truly glad to see his friends. He was in sore need of company and cheer. Everything seemed to be falling down around him, and he was most concerned not for his own health - though that could be considered precarious as well - but for his sister's. She had been ailing for some time, with a disease even the best doctors he could find had been unable to diagnose. He hardly knew what he would do without his sister. She was all the family he had left; they were the last of their family, and of their line.

His smile grew wider and less pained as Ronan assured him that they were friends. Of course they were. It had been a long time since he had seen them, and it was he who had fallen out of touch with them, but they had always been dependable. And they had made the trip here, to his home. "I am honored, Ronan. Thank you."

Ronan commented on the need for comfort and joy, but Lilka, as always, provided a counterpoint of sorts to that statement. Jordan, for his part, was completely silent. Roderick chuckled at Lilka and nodded, a bit sadly. "That is true. I feel quite selfish, in fact, for seeking it for myself. But I will explain what accursed condition has afflicted me."

On the subject of the "bonny doll," Roderick fell a little sad again, even despite Lilka's snippy return comment. "That is my sister, Madeline. She is ill as well, but physically. No doctor has been able to tell me what is the matter with her." He sighed and shook his head. "At least with me, they have been able to address the condition."

His hands shook nervously. "It is an odd sort of melancholia. I am losing control of my senses. Every food bothers my tongue, every smell overwhelms me. I can only wear cotton, and every sound hammers against my head. Aside from human voices, I suppose, and stringed instruments, for some reason." He shrugged loosely and picked up a violin and its bow; a guitar leaned against a chair not far from the group.

"But there is something more," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There is something else that oppresses me. I have not told anyone, not the doctors, for fear they would think me mad." The violin settled into his lap; he clutched the arms of his chair as he leaned forward. "It is… this house. This house is alive."

[Ronan MacGuinness]

I haunt your fears
Though you don't know of my duty
To lead your path
Because I'll take you home to rest
In my black wings enfolding you

"I am honored, Ronan. Thank you."

"Ye called, and I answered, what else can an honorable Irishman like meself do?" Rona said with a smile. He almost thought to produce his pipe, but figured to save it for later.

“Comfort and joy are uncommon just about everywhere.”

Ronan was certainly not amused by his companion's cynical attitude. That was the sort of thing that would undermine the whole purpose of this venture. Ronan knew it was hard to live just about anywhere, and his homeland had no shortage of woes itself. But he was not one to let such things overshadow the larger truths. Home to him was a land of rolling green hills and blue sky, of white rock mountains and haunting coasts. These moorlands were near places not too unlike that, but that Roderick's line had to have the moorlands was a cruel fate he wished upon no one. Even in the nicest places the world had to offer outside his homeland, in his heart Ronan always longed for Eire.

"Aye, but some lands be joyful in their nature. Ye would deny that?"

“I don't think she's available, or if she is, you'll have to ask Roderick for permission.”

Ronan was quite offended at this point. He was not meaning to be so presumptuous as Lilka made him out to be. To think he meant to ask upon the availability of that frail and haunting waif? It was quite presumptuous an implication in itself.

"I have me wife at home, so I'll not be having ye besmirch me character," Ronan said, visibly bristling.


"That is my sister, Madeline. She is ill as well, but physically. No doctor has been able to tell me what is the matter with her."

" A damn shame, that is." Rona said, empathizing with Roderick. He had seen friends and family die to similar ailments. The experts and priests could do nothing. It was a damn shame, indeed. It got his blood boiling, in fact. For all the world was changing all the time, death taking people for no damn reason at all was still an ongoing phenomenon.

"It is an odd sort of melancholia. I am losing control of my senses. Every food bothers my tongue, every smell overwhelms me. I can only wear cotton, and every sound hammers against my head. Aside from human voices, I suppose, and stringed instruments, for some reason."

"No bagpipes then?" Ronan said, offhand, trying to offer humor to the situation.

Ronan's attention, as well as his imagination, was fully captured when Roderick mentioned that he was experiencing...something...that would make him seem mad. Ronan partially hoped it would relate to his own similar fears. That he was not the only one. He was rather quickly disappointed and confused at the same moment. He was totally unprepared for the revelation that followed.

"It is… this house. This house is alive."

"Perhaps 'tis true that ye are mad, friend. In me ma's stories there were the sidhe, and the ol' gods, and giants too, but never have a heard a tale of houses that be livin' and breathin'. Got me at a loss, to be true."

[Jordan Mercer]

As Roderick spoke, Jordan listened carefully, and nodded occasionally when the Irishman offered comfort. Lilka was brash, as always. Jordan had expected no less. And when Roderick explained his own condition, Jordan felt something inside him connect with that. He knew about pain, both physical and psychological, and he understood what Roderick was going through, aside from the physical manifestations of the melancholia.

But when Ronan told Roderick that he was crazy about the house, Jordan spoke up. “I believe it,” he said very, very quiet. “Not that the house is living and breathing… but that it feels alive. That it has a spirit and it’s moving through us all. Don’t you feel it?” He glanced around at the group. “Well. Perhaps it it only Roderick and I.”

[NPC]

For a while, Roderick allowed Ronan and Lilka to banter back and forth, but, once Ronan took offense at Lilka’s comment regarding Madeline’s availability, he held up a hand. He knew Lilka meant it as a mostly facetious comment, but still, he did not wish for any sort of disagreement to break out among his friends. He said nothing, however; the hand gesture was enough.

He frowned briefly as Ronan suggested that he was indeed mad, and then at Jordan as the young man attempted to commiserate. They had not understood him, then. “No matter,” he said very quietly. “We will forget that I mentioned it.” He picked up his violin, and gave Ronan a wan smile. “No bagpipes, I’m afraid, my dear friend. It is the violin that soothes me.” And he plunged into a beautiful, sorrowful dirge that may well have troubled anyone present to the very core.

The guests remained with Roderick for weeks, caring for him, trying their best to cheer him up, even joining in his activities - painting and reading with him, and joining in on vocals and guitar as he played his tearful music on his violin. Finally it came to pass that young Madeline died, and Roderick declared his intention to have her preserved in their home, in the cellar, for a fortnight before finally laying her to rest. They gathered around her there in the cellar as Roderick gazed upon her, then stepped back with obvious reluctance.

“This is the end, then,” he said quietly. “I am the last of my family.”

[Ronan MacGuinness]

“No matter,”

Ronan was not convinced that the issue was so easily put aside for the young aristocrat. It was troubling him, regardless of what the others here would or could say to ease his suffering. Ronan wanted to be of more help, but he was much a stranger to the soothing of melancholies. Most practitioners of medical arts seemed to be as confused as Ronan was, from what he had read up on before setting out to the manor house he was now in. More to the point, if the melancholy was based on a delusion that further perplexed Ronan. But Irish comfort mostly involved song, drink, and a folk story or two between friends. Perhaps in the time he would spend with Roderick, one such tactic would avail.

“No bagpipes, I’m afraid, my dear friend. It is the violin that soothes me.”

"Aye, a fiddle is as good for me, too." Ronan said, with a sanguine smile.

The dirge that Roderick played removed the smile from his face however. It was a song of death, and it harrowed his spirit. That Roderick took comfort in such sorrowful a tune was not unsurprising as such, but that he would think to share it with others...did he want them to feel the same tension, terror, dread and despair that he felt? Ronan wouldn't have understood otherwise.

*Some time later*-

“This is the end, then,”

Ronan nodded somberly. The waif he had only ever seen but in passing was now in plain view of all. It was a strange thing to think, that he should be here for this funeral. But the whole time had felt like an extended funeral. But for whom?


“I am the last of my family.”

"Your line can continue, friend," Ronan said, " A fair lass in some wealthy family waits for ye, surely."

[Jordan Mercer]

Naturally, Jordan understood Roderick’s sentiment. Ronan was right, of course - there were any number of women Roderick could take to wife, and continue the Usher name. But with a loss such as this one - for Roderick, a sister; for Jordan, a courtly love - it fell heavy on the heart and removed all hope from it. He looked down on the casket as the others did, and took note of how alike Roderick and Madeline looked. They had been close, he knew, before illnesses of different kinds overtook them both.

After that, a week passed for all of them. During that time, Jordan, and certainly as well as the others, noticed that Roderick became less somber and far more agitated. In addition to that, the whole atmosphere of the house took an eerie turn. Jordan found himself increasingly uncomfortable. He was ready to leave at any moment, but he did not want to abandon his friend. So he withstood it, although it seemed as though the more days dragged on, the more pronounced the feeling grew.

Finally, one night, as a storm raged outside, Jordan heard hurried steps outside his room. Looking out, he saw Roderick running downstairs, where he flung the front door open, taking in the storm, the way the clouds crashed together and crated electric phenomena, enhanced by the fog that surrounded the mansion. “This is ill advised, Roderick,” Jordan said gently, closing the door. “Here, have a seat. See, right here is one of your favorite romances. We’ll read to you.”

[NPC]

The comment Ronan made regarding his line earned a wan smile from Roderick. It was true, of course. But in that melancholic state, such a possibility felt so very, very distant. He gazed upon his sister’s face one last moment before enclosing her in her tomb.

A week passed. Then, one night, Roderick was awakened by a terrible noise - or, perhaps, a horrifying sound, he could not be sure, He ran downstairs to learn what might be afoot, and he encountered his friends there, who must have heard the same, he was certain.

Jordan closed the door through which he was watching the phenomena and offered to read to him. A bit sullenly, Roderick collapsed into a chair, and his friends passed around a book from which they read passages. Every now and then, whoever was reading would pause, as a strange sound came from somewhere in the house.

Feeling uncomfortable, Roderick moved his chair to face the chamber door. There he sat, rocking in the chair, his head down, murmuring to himself as the others read; until a loud crash broke the calm in the room. While the others may have been surprised, even jumped up at the sound, Roderick remained seated, murmuring still, but louder than before.

“Heard it? Yes, I have heard it. I have long heard it - for some time now, but I dared not - I dared not speak - we have put her living in the tomb!! Do you hear her now? Did you not hear the sound of her scraping out of her coffin - and rushing up the stairs - and - I tell you-“ His voice was rising in pitch, until he now was screaming, a fearful, piteous scream- "I tell you that she now stands without the door!”

A silence fell upon them - no noises, no murmurs, barely a breath. And then the doors before which they stood yawned open, revealing the bloodied, scraped figure of the Lady Madeline. She stood there for some moments, and then rushed at her brother, taking him down, both groaning and screaming at the same time as she now finally came to her final breaths, taking her brother, a victim to his own fright, into death with her.