Rincewind (rincewind) wrote in bearandbarnacle, @ 2008-08-30 19:10:00 |
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Current mood: | scared |
Rincewind: Arrival (Another Fine Mess)
The scattered particles of what had been Rincewind’s mind pulled themselves together and drifted up through the layers of dark unconsciousness like a three-day corpse. It probed its most recent memories, He could recall a pain so intense it appeared to insert a chisel between every cell of his body and hammer on it repeatedly. “Just because a door says ‘Employees Only’ and you’re not is no reason to take on so,” he muttered to himself. And now there was this. By the feel of it, Rincewind was lying on sand. It was very cold. He took a risk of seeing something horrible and opened his eyes. It seemed to be night-time. The beach, or whatever it was, stretched on towards a line of distant low mountains, under a night sky frosted with a million white stars. Closer, there were things. The particular thing nearest Rincewind was at least twenty feet high. It looked like a dead horse that had been dug up after three months and then introduced to a range of new experiences, at least one of which had included an octopus. It hadn’t noticed Rincewind. Rincewind prudently decided to have it away on finger-and toe tips, a technique he had perfected long ago. When the horse/octopus was a distant blur, he took to his feet and ran away, something he’d also perfected long ago. Rincewind was an expert at running away and he had the scars on his back to prove it. After a while, his legs began to protest and he slowed to a walk. He could see nothing in large quantities in every direction. Just the cold endless sand.
Rincewind kept walking, his head down, so as not to chance seeing another horse/octopus creature. For how long, he had no idea. Just plod, plod, plod, one foot in front of the other, for what could have been days, or weeks or iains or even just a few minutes. It was impossible to tell in this place. He was just starting to feel hungry (lending credence to the minutes/hours theory) when he was very rudely accosted by something hard running right into him. “OUCH!” Rincewind stumbled back, rubbing his nose and hopping to try and relieve his stubbed toes. It was another door. Just a plain ordinary door with a brass knob. Just standing there in the middle of nowhere. Rincewind glared at it, daring it to say anything. It didn’t. In fact, its expression could best be described as wooden. He circled it warily, recalling his recent encounter with an entryway. There was nothing to show why it was there or where it might lead. Absurdly, he thought about knocking, but dismissed the idea at once, not knowing, or suspecting he knew all too well, what might answer. He turned and walked off. He stopped. He shook his head. Started walking again. Stopped again. Stood for quite a while having an argument with himself. Finally, heaving a put-upon sigh, he turned back and slowly approached the door. Rincewind stared suspiciously. The door just stood there. “I know I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, then turned the knob.
Nothing exploded and nothing horrible came screeching out at him. Rincewind opened his eyes a crack. There was a hallway, leading away. The floor was rather worn linoleum. He ventured a step closer and still saw nothing. He took a few more hesitant steps. He still didn’t see anything but he did smell something. Something wonderful. It smelled like frying. Maybe fish, perhaps even chips, but there was definitely something burnt-and-crunchy in the air. His stomach, instantly notified by his nose, began making demands. Rincewind tried to remonstrate, to explain the need for reason and NOT going down that hallway. His stomach refused to listen. In fact, it decided to take matters into its own hands (so to speak) and started his legs marching down the hall toward the source of the smells. There was another door at the end of the hall, remarkably like the first. His stomach still in charge, Rincewind’s hand immediately turned the knob. He peered around the doorframe. He was in some sort of back room and the smell was even stronger. He was stomach-marched out of the back room and into a pub. He guessed it was a pub. There was a bar with stools and tables with chairs. If he looked more closely there might even have been a dartboard somewhere about. He sidled in and took one of the stools. “It’s up to you now,” his stomach informed him. “Don’t make us wait all day.”