I'm sorry. I don't know if this is exactly what OP had in mind, and it's kinda rambly and boring and OOC and agh. I could apologize forever.
The rooms told the story better than he could. He never considered himself a skilled storyteller- he was far too inarticulate, his tongue slickened with the damned drink and his mind endlessly bursting with descriptors, idioms, and intricate wordplay. Their dance was clumsy and a waste of effort- time to be better spent on preservation. So he scattered his relics instead, the way he had the ashes of many a fallen warrior, and allowed the observer to document what they could and let the rest fall as it was. He had a curator's eye, building the set before the script and allowing inspiration to be tangible from the start.
And the rooms span quite the parable.
In the room closest to the stairs, where his pressing concerns- a wretched burn, charring everything in its wake and leaving his eyes soiled, muscles taut, lips tight, veins pulsing, bones cracking, heart racing, sweat pouring-could be dealt with instantly and certainly. He knew from the dreadful aftermath how his mind curdled, the grotesque artifact failing to correct the stagger of their step and the turns of the hall. There were dents, cracks, breaks, and dips where not welcome, and that was only speaking of the wall.
Maybe, in a hundred or so years- when the home was furnished with red ropes and pamphlets, a battalion of tourists armed with time-cushioned curiosity swarming about their scratched parquet, stories would be fabricated of the debauched walls. The tragic (yet glorious) tale of a battle raging on, the powerful lords of the North in a twisted dance of dysfunction, the term 'relinquish' little more than rumour and treaties scrawled with double-edged knives.
And none would speak of how Denmark fucked Sweden right across that charming little ambry.
Sweden's room was much like the man himself- completely devoid of charm. Not a fine little fixture or expressive art in sight.
It was a mausoleum for peace, the scratched up floorboards serving as the epitaph. And that was more than it deserved. It was the Room for Sweden, and whatever moniker had been affixed to it before was peeled off like flaked skin under nails. Didn’t really mean shit anymore, for the day two great blond men elbowed their way through the door, spittle and curses flying every which way, the room had become forever tainted. A palpable fury had overtaken the room, and the only available air rested behind the lips of the other. Two beasts to watering hole.
And it had worked, in a cracked little way. For while swords could slice and blunts could break, nothing worked better than a little abject humiliation. Just the way Sweden had writhed about with broken whimpers and heavy pants was satiating, and nothing was more beautiful than the knowledge that he had captured the great bear of the North. The little chill running down the spine of Europe, trapped by two arms and a leer.
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(Anonymous) 2012-04-14 05:05 am (UTC)(link)The rooms told the story better than he could. He never considered himself a skilled storyteller- he was far too inarticulate, his tongue slickened with the damned drink and his mind endlessly bursting with descriptors, idioms, and intricate wordplay.
Their dance was clumsy and a waste of effort- time to be better spent on preservation. So he scattered his relics instead, the way he had the ashes of many a fallen warrior, and allowed the observer to document what they could and let the rest fall as it was. He had a curator's eye, building the set before the script and allowing inspiration to be tangible from the start.
And the rooms span quite the parable.
In the room closest to the stairs, where his pressing concerns- a wretched burn, charring everything in its wake and leaving his eyes soiled, muscles taut, lips tight, veins pulsing, bones cracking, heart racing, sweat pouring-could be dealt with instantly and certainly. He knew from the dreadful aftermath how his mind curdled, the grotesque artifact failing to correct the stagger of their step and the turns of the hall. There were dents, cracks, breaks, and dips where not welcome, and that was only speaking of the wall.
Maybe, in a hundred or so years- when the home was furnished with red ropes and pamphlets, a battalion of tourists armed with time-cushioned curiosity swarming about their scratched parquet, stories would be fabricated of the debauched walls.
The tragic (yet glorious) tale of a battle raging on, the powerful lords of the North in a twisted dance of dysfunction, the term 'relinquish' little more than rumour and treaties scrawled with double-edged knives.
And none would speak of how Denmark fucked Sweden right across that charming little ambry.
Sweden's room was much like the man himself- completely devoid of charm. Not a fine little fixture or expressive art in sight.
It was a mausoleum for peace, the scratched up floorboards serving as the epitaph. And that was more than it deserved. It was the Room for Sweden, and whatever moniker had been affixed to it before was peeled off like flaked skin under nails. Didn’t really mean shit anymore, for the day two great blond men elbowed their way through the door, spittle and curses flying every which way, the room had become forever tainted. A palpable fury had overtaken the room, and the only available air rested behind the lips of the other. Two beasts to watering hole.
And it had worked, in a cracked little way. For while swords could slice and blunts could break, nothing worked better than a little abject humiliation. Just the way Sweden had writhed about with broken whimpers and heavy pants was satiating, and nothing was more beautiful than the knowledge that he had captured the great bear of the North. The little chill running down the spine of Europe, trapped by two arms and a leer.