Round Two! Fight!

Yo peeps, OK here is my entry for the week, hope to be writing lots of new stories for you people out there.


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Title: Dawson's Story
Genre: Fantasy
Story Restrictions: Must start in Library, Someone must die unexpectedly, someone must drink something they have not drunk in a long time.
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The room was small, smaller than any Dawson had seen before. There were two tables and several chairs in the cramped space, which made things even worse. Small lanterns were scattered around the room in a random arrangement, each giving off a faint orange glow that illuminated a few feet in all directions. The books along the walls seemed almost ethereal in this tangerine half light, their spines warping and twisting as shadows played against them. Dawson moved through the aisles of the dusty room, trying desperately to not disturb even the slightest speck of history for fear of punishment. The book he needed was on the top shelf of the western wall or so he was told. Dawson had refused help from the mansion’s steward for fear of being spied upon. The eyes of his stalkers were everywhere these days and he needed to keep what he was about in private. Dawson reached the western wall of the small room and pulled the ladder over to where he assumed the book should be and began to climb. His weak arms struggling with each rung as his boney frame climbed higher and higher into the air. He climbed seeing the dust from the shelves getting thicker and thicker from lack of attendance from the cleaning people. Dawson made a mental note to comment on the cleanliness of the room to the Steward before he left. Finally upon reaching the zenith of the ladder he came across a set of books that no one had touched in more than a decade. The spines were black leather coiled with a stark white cord that showed no sign of age or wear. The wording on the spines was in a silver bead and read Brackin Family Tree. “This is what I’m looking for it is, it is!” Exclaimed Dawson quietly to himself. Running his finger along the spines until he found the volume he needed and pulled it from its place. The other books toppled over to fill the place where their brother once claimed. With book under his arm Dawson descended down the ladder and back towards the entrance to the room, a smile on his usually depressed looking face.
Exiting the library he moved into the plain hallways of the Brackin Mansion, their once former glory gone now with the ages. Stains along the walls marked where the great family portraits had hung, displaying proud men and women who had raised the name of Brackin to glory. Now those portraits lay in some waste, shredded, defiled, broken, never to see the light of day again just like the other family heirlooms that had been taken in the great split.
Dawson turned the corner and proceeded down a set of spiral stairs that led to the main hall of the house. As he approached the main floor of the mansion, he heard several people conversing. One of them was the steward his high shrill voice unmistakable, the other two he did not know. They sounded like they were from the JJC, their heavy accents ramming into Dawson’s ears with their heavy H’s and rough R’s. They seemed to be arguing about something; however it was impossible to tell from the stairwell. Dawson moved down out of the stair well and was just about to take the corner into the main hall when he heard the shrill scream from the steward and then a thud as if a heavy bag of yams fell to the floor. Fear ran through Dawson as he edged towards the corner that turned into the main hall. Slowly he peeked around the edge and saw such horror it’s almost unspeakable. There on the majestic red carpet lay the steward, blood creeping out of his lifeless form to soak into the carpet. His head a grotesque jigsaw puzzle after the pincer had smashed it open. Dawson pulled his head back quickly, his heart racing and his hollow face was soaked in sweat. He had just witnessed a murder of an innocent man by government officials. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. His mind raced and reeled as the possibilities lit up before him. He could walk out casually; make it look like he was just passing through. No they would kill him to hide their crime. He could return to the library, hide until they had finished their business. That was the safest option and Dawson was a cautious man. Slowly he edged back towards the steps, careful to not make a sound, each step taken with care.
He began to ascend the steps, slowly at first and then more quickly until finally he was in a full dash, his dark leather shoes slapping against the cold stone with each step. Up and up he ran until he was once again in the hall leading to the library and beyond. Moving past the library the young researcher with book in hand turned into a room that was sparsely decorated but had a very thick Larian oak door with a secure latch. Closing the door behind him and securing the latch in place Dawson turned and examined the room he had chosen as a sanctuary from the evil which chased him. The room was plain, a desk sat in the middle of the room lined with several bottles of liquid and several high backed reading chairs were scattered here and there. The stone floor was lined with a very intricate carpet from the south western country of Lar. The griffins and snakes on it chased each other in a constant circle never gaining ground over the other, in a constant battle of neutrality. Dawson noticed that there were several glasses mixed in with the bottles. The natural assumption was he stumbled on Senator Brackin’s drawing room. Moving into the room he looked at the liquids closer, each was an expensive spirit of some kind. There was Brandish Wine from 836 EP, Larian Rum that was illegal anywhere but inside Lar as well as several other bottles whose labels were too worn to read. However there was one bottle that Dawson could not refuse to inspect closer. A bottle of 1193 Rockwind Whiskey. He had drunk a few glasses of Rockwind Whiskey in his youth, it was a drink that let you free your mind and dance with the wind, let your preconceived ideas disappear. It was simply an amazing drink. Dawson’s hand began to shake, sweat poured down his already slick face, his heart quickened. A slow smile crept along his mouth as it began to water.
Dawson was a recovering alcoholic, in his youth he was a drinker and he had a taste for Whiskey. Rockwind whiskey was the one drink he could never afford very much of; it was the drink for the rich, the famous and the man who had everything. It was the great equalizer in the end but was too expensive for the common man. It had been a hard fight to get the drink from Dawson’s system, he had gone twenty some years without a single drop of the rich, tasty liquid that burned so hard it made you feel born again. However now, now he was tempted. The first time in all that time and he was finding it difficult to turn away and place the bottle back.
“I just need a little too wet my whistle and to calm my nerves, I did just witness a murder!” He said to himself, half laughing to no one. Dawson popped open the decanter and smelled the liquid inside. The aroma wafted to the quivering mans nose sending him into an ecstatic shock. Licking his lips he began to pour the drink into a cup, spilling more of the stuff then actually getting into the cup. When the cup was adequately filled he placed the decanter back on the desk and raised the cup to his lips. Breathing in the scent he tipped the cup and swallowed the stuff in one gulp. The liquid burned his mouth, injecting its toxins and chemicals into his gums and tongue starting him on a journey he would never forget.
It was a mere seconds before Dawson collapsed on the cold stone floor shaking a foaming at the mouth as the additives in the drink sent him on his other worldly trip. He left his body and went sailing into the other world, stars and moons and suns flew past him. He saw things that were at once possible and impossible, his mind turned and twisted in the chaos of the new land he now travelled. He found that things were upside down and right side up, that he was spinning but things were perfectly still. All sense of direction was gone now, he didn’t know where he had come from or where he was going, he saw others there as well. Mutated freaks, their flesh twisted into tendrils and shapes that the human brain could not comprehend. They tried to speak to him but all that came out was a wailing of such anguish and pain that it made Dawson weep when he heard it. Further and further into the new land he travelled, oceans of metal rose up and crashed against the beaches of wood and cement, the tiny animals that lived here running to and fro amongst the wrecked bone ships sailing the shore. Islands of tears and blood floated in mid air, their inhabitants, more of the twisted flesh creatures he had seen earlier. In the distance he thought he saw himself, lying in a great high backed chair in the drawing room surrounded by an orange glow. He tried to call out to himself but got no response. He travelled the land seeing things that would drive men insane and make scholars question the existence of the universe. He floated there for what seemed years and then as if a timer ran down to its last digit the world screeched to a halt and a black vortex appeared before him sucking him in. The world began to darken around him, thunder striking the air and thunder rolling across the twisted sky. As the vortex closed around him he felt a great heat and his skin began to blacken and burn. Dawson screamed and blue and purple flames began to sprout out from his skin and a great wail burst from his lungs.
Dawson opened his eyes as pain racked through his body; he was in a hospital surrounded by people all working on him. His body was a fire with pain, every inch of him scratched and burned. He tried to move his head and found it was secured to the gurney he was laying on. Huge piece of skin were being lifted out of a cooler and place onto him, the muffled words of the doctors and nurses who worked on him sounded like static to him. One of the nurses noticed he was awake and bent closer to his ear. “You are badly burned, we will save you do not worry. You are lucky to be alive, yes?” she spoke softly into his ear, her accent heavy, and thick, filled with horrible grammar. He was in a JJC medical facility, being injected with their drugs and his body parts being replaced by god knows what. Dawson knew that after they were done with him he would be one of their drones and his life would be over. The last image he saw was of the huge segmented exoskeleton they wheeled in to wrap him in, then there was nothing but darkness.