Sir Bramley Facespierre, master of the immaterial arts reflects on a life of conflict and deceit in his twilight years. He is attended in his manor by Bronzewick, his long-suffering servant.
Sir BF “Vanquished are mine enemies, at long last.”
B “Well done sir.”
Sir BF “Exterminated with extreme prejudice and elegance.”
B “Your powers are ever impressive sir.”
Sir BF “Zealously have I slain those who mocked me and scattered their playthings in the mud.”
B “And we are both grateful and worshipful sir”
Sir BF “Bronzewick, do I detect a faint note of sarcasm in your otherwise obsequious tone?”
B “Considering the awe-inspiring depths of your insight into the minds of man, sir, I would be astonished if such a thing fell beneath your notice. Sir.”
Sir BF “Doubtless a mind such as mine is indeed proof against deceit.”
B “Everyone says so sir.”
Sir BF “Fulsome praise indeed, and wholly merited.”
B “God himself would warm you with his approbation sir.”
Sir BF “Have I ever told you how I came into possession of my powers?”
B “If I may sir, I do have an awful lot of household duties to accomplish this morning.”
Sir BF “Just a moment Bronzewick, this will take but a moment.”
B “(Kill me now).”
Sir BF “Look out beyond those trees – over the horizon.”
B “My sir, what an uncommonly attractive view.”
Sir BF “Oh Bronzewick, ever is your mind fastened to the mere surface of things.”
B “Please sir, I have dusting to attend to.”
Sir BF “Quell your anxieties Bronzewick, I shall reveal all; we are all made of the same dust – its presence on baubles can surely matter little.”
B “Rarely is a servant so blessed with such an elightened and generous employer.”
Sir BF “So, one Tuesday or perhaps Thursday in a June long ago I located-“
B “-through wit, intuition and mastery of the practical arts-“
Sir BF “Unless you cease your interruptions I’ll never manage to relate to you my secrets – oh, I see.”
B “Very good sir, now if you don’t mind I’ll be about my spoon polishing.”
Water’s cold when it slaps ye in the face, wettin’ ye features and dragging ye into its arms. Xanthic fish darted about me, evadin’ me splashy bubbles. Yellow they were, and reminded me o’ how I’d come to be sinkin’ face first into the deeps. Zesty indeed had been the feast prepared by our chef, Monty McBuboe. As we’d grown terrifiyingly loose in the tooth during our voyage about the horn of Nepal, I’d made sure to insist that our citric stocks be refilled when we slapped into land once more. Benevolence was the name o’ that harbour, though she were far from’t.
Twixt Earth and Moon lie creatures whose existence I’d never even suspected. Unless you peer upwards through a device wrought by the dark astronomical arts you’d never perceive them. Vile, amorphous shapes loose in the Earth’s halo, sheltered by the mystic shroud the Moon casts over them. Wizened travellers from the birth of time, they lie in wait about our tiny hub of life; they wait to consume it.Extolling the virtues of Nethersight the priesthood of Tzazanoth hold rituals ghastly and foul at the Lunar apex. “Yield to our influence, embrace the sacred blinding hood and have your will sapped and fed to the masters”. Zealotry drives them and their combination of archaic speech and sensory deprivation appealed to me.
