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Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars IV: Infernus
(q)
Saturday, May 12, 708 CR
The bridge swept past in the blink of an eye and
Charles struck hard against a bright yellow road.
He groaned and gasped for breath as he lay there,
his teeth rattled by the jarring impact, pain
throbbing through his entire body. But as he lay
there those pains faded to aches and his racing
heart slowed along with the rapid whoops of his
gasping breath. For several seconds he did
nothing but lay where he had come to rest,
staring at the rough surface of the incongruously
yellow road upon which he sprawled.
As the pain ebbed he began to notice two things
for which he felt a swell of gratitude.
The first was that his flesh was whole again. The
burns that had seared his left side were no more;
healed as thoroughly as if they had never
occurred. His ear, savaged by terrible claws, was
whole and unblemished and his tail severed most
cruelly had been restored. Qan-af-årael had
promised his tail would return and so it had!
Every terribly injury had been reversed, every
scratch and bruise he had suffered in the savage
daedra's arena gone utterly. Charles pulled the
tip of his tail to his snout and pressed it
against his cleft lips in a delighted kiss.
The second thing he noticed was that the
suffocating red that had infested both the earth
and the air in the violent daedra's realm was
gone. The surface of the yellow road upon which
he had come to rest, and his eyes had been
staring at fixedly during the long moments he
waited for the pains to fade and his heart to
slow, appeared to be of a single material. There
were no stones, nor seams to indicate stone or
brick or anything else, but whatever it was made
of defied Charles' understanding. It was neither
gold, nor sulfur, or anything he knew. Charles,
remembering the chain and collar, was loathe to reach within to learn more.
Taking his tail in both hands Charles levered
himself up to take in the new vista into which
had had been cast with such brutal strength his
arrival had left a furrow in the soft grass for
almost ten paces before reaching the road upon
which he had finally come to rest.
Grass.
Green, verdant, welcoming. The smell of it had
been in his nostrils since arriving but only as
his eyes took in the terrible wound left by his
arrival though no bridge or other means of
entry were visible did the unmistakeable
reality of that smell strike him. The soft lawn
of nearly tended grass begged him to lie in it
and simply let his cares fade away. Charles felt
himself leaning toward it, furrow of churned
earth notwithstanding, to do just that.
Catching himself, Charles reared back in surprise.
Where was he, after all?!
Shifting to his knees and then standing, the pain
of his travels and battles faded, Charles looked around.
He had come to a sprawling stop in what appeared
to be a sizable courtyard bounded on one side by
a hedge that towered twice his own height, a
single gap offering welcome entry into he assumed
was merely a garden labyrinth. Pavilions of the
sort he'd find in a southern Pyralian villa, both
open and tented, dotted the green, the diaphanous
material of roof and wall billowing on a breeze
on the perfect side of cool. Rich colors, damask
and lavender in particular though he could not
count the variety of azure and jade he also
glimpsed, adorned everything in sight like
dropped silks. Above him the sky appeared draped
in a twilight glow from some unseen source as if
he were actually in a vast, warm room. There were
no stars in the sky, no sun nor moon to offer him
any sense of time. He could imagine that the glow
were offered by countless candles and lanterns;
light enough to see easily but just dim enough to invite intimacy.
And judging by the giggles and growls, gasping
and moaning, grunts and cries of pleasure, that
invitation was not ignored. Charles was a man
grown, even if he were now a rat, and he
understood those sounds well. In pavilions
lacking walls he could see shadowy forms in
earnest motion but chanced not to look more
closely or intrude upon the sources of those
pleasured sounds coming at him from every direction save down.
Incense tickled at his nose with whiff of opiates
and the effervescence of hashish. He swallowed
heavily, senses dulled in that haze of perfume
that shamed the most redolent boudoir. That
particular essence he had long savored that
lingered in the air of his bedchambers after a
passionate night with his wife now teased at his whiskers.
But more compelling was the scent of food.
Glorious, luscious, delectable aromas of fresh
fruit, cured meats, delicious cheeses sharp,
mellow, or musky all made his mouth water. His
tongue slipped free at the tang of exotic spices
in never-ending combinations that called to him
more firmly than tug of chain. He felt lifted
from the earth by the promise of cumin and
rosemary, anise and nutmeg, cinnamon and thyme,
paprika and sesame, and many others he could not
name. The biting promise of wine in unending
profusion reminded him just how long it had been
since he had even sipped a thimble-full of water.
There were countless other scents as well, all
natural, some tantalizing, some heavily pungent
but all bespeaking of a single overwhelming
desire beyond hunger. One struck Charles as
particularly overwhelming, a scent he never would
have paid heed to before he became a rat for it
was unique to being what he now was.
A very feminine scent that lanced through his
senses as keenly as the sharpest sword and lit a
fire within his loins that left him reeling.
Lifting his head slightly Charles cast his nose
toward that musk, his whiskers trembling, but at
the same time he sought to withdraw from it; from
the complete relinquishment of control its
appeasement would demand. Where was Qan-af-årael,
he wondered, sending his thoughts in search of
him beyond his nose though his body turned and
his upraised snout sought the source of those
mingles aromas of food and flesh. The lordly Åelf
had contended against the very Lord of Rage in
the dark god's own house. Did his contest
continue, a stalemate of violence, as his
protector ever sought to enter the bridge? Had
Revonos defeated him and fitted him with a collar
of his own, leaving Charles to face what he might encounter alone?
Charles shuddered at the thought of being left
without his guide and protector, a soul so
ancient and so unimaginably powerful that he
could stand against the gods in their own
thronerooms and escape undefeated. Padding the
down the pathway of unidentifiable yellow
material the rat crept past the nearest of the
pavilions, this with its silken walls drawn down.
That thin barrier showed shadows writhing within,
but did nothing to mask the sounds that they
made. Backing his ears Charles sidled past,
leaving the garden, going from where he had no
idea where he was to another place that he know
how where it was; but the bridge would be there.
He had to trust in the Åelf. Qan-af-årael would
appear, as unblemished as Charles, after he
vanquished Rage, to lead his little rat beyond this place of suffering and woe.
Creeping along the walls, ducking quickly past
doors, Charles entered a wide corridor paved in
that yellow material. Under his paws it felt like
sand that had been frozen in place; rough enough
that his paws did not slip but smooth enough to
be comfortable underfoot. It was neither hot nor
cold nor, particularly, hard. It did not deform
with each step but there was a subtle yield to it
as if he were walking on tamped earth.
In short, it was a perfect surface upon which to
walk unfatigued if that were his desire.
Charles had no such desire; he only wished to
achieve the next bridge or to find where
Qan-af-årael had come to rest after escaping from Revonos' realm.
When a hand seized his arm Charles let out an
indecorous chuff of surprise and tried to pull
away but the grip was like iron. He leaned
against the grasp, which turned out to be nothing
more than a purely ordinary hand unblemished by
the callouses of labor or color of work
out-of-doors. An aristocrat's hand, or noble's,
though the owner of that hand was dressed in the
rags of the meanest peasant. At one time they had
been the cloths of a courtesan but time and
depredations had reduced them to tatters barely
sufficient to clothe the woman's flesh. Despite
the fact that he planted his paws Charles felt
himself dragged into the room from which the
woman's hands had groped for, and found, a hapless passing victim.
Within were a score or two of similarly dressed
fallen nobles both men and women, their formal
clothing stained and ragged with unknowable age,
milling about a table from which the
mouthwatering scents of a wondrous feast arose.
Charles felt his paws forfeit their firm grasp of
the yellow pathway and his weight drifting toward
that table under the desperate pull of the
woman's hand. The table was as long as the Great
Hall of Metamor ad weighted to groaning under the
mass of delicacies being brought out by an
endless line of servitors. Here and there forms
cavorted upon the table, ignoring the food and
the results their activities had upon the dishes
nearest, and Charles cast his gaze away from them
and deafened his ears to their urgent sounds.
He then understood the shabbily clothed woman's
plea when he saw another of the beggared nobles
snatch up an apple backed in cinnamon. Even as
the man brought it toward his face the apple
putrefied and crumbled in a sodden mass of
corruption. Despite that the man shoved the
remains at his mouth only to have them arrive as
dust. Nothing was left even on his fingers to
lick; the apple had been utterly consumed by
decay. Tentatively, moved by pity, Charles picked
up a meat pastry and offered it to the woman.
With a look of wondrous thanks the woman released
his arm and snatched the pastry with both hands sparing him not another look.
The moment she raised it from his palm the pastry
sloughed into mold and the meat crumbled to dust
leaving her noble hands unblemished by so much as a crumb.
While she moaned at the failure of her desperate
thoughts Charles made his escape, darting back
out into the passage of the yellow path and
almost collided with the most ideal image of
beauty he had ever crossed in all the days of his
mortal life human or rodent. Standing just
beyond the doorway was a rat a female rat of
radiant white garbed in the finest of royal
gowns. Her eyes were an arresting shade of azure
blue that did not gaze upon him beatifically;
they were level, appraising, and hungry in a most coquettish manner.
To her beauty perfectly smooth pink nose,
exquisitely shaped incisors, whiskers of exact
measure and breadth, ears delicate and round, and
breasts ample but not overflowing the Lady
Kimberly was the meanest of peasants, a visage so
revolting to look upon her after this comely
beauty would be enough to make him nauseous.
In such proximity her bouquet a plethora of
mixed aromas struck him like a hammerblow.
Under the scents of perfume perfect for her
natural musk, of the finest silks and oils, was
another scent altogether. The scent of her nature
refined, at the peak of ripeness, lit a fire
within the rat that burned his thought to a whirling fog.
The candle, the flame; shield with sword
inscribed; center and cleanse! The simple
meditations of Charles' youth was all he could
find to cling to lest he fling himself into that
ravishing beauty and be lost. He reeled back,
focusing on the inner calm, the center that would
allow him to purge the fire that threatened his
sanity and the very love he had for his own wife.
Throwing a hand up as if suddenly facing a
blinding light Charles turned and fled down the passageway.
The image of beauty and lustful desire did not
pursue, merely looking after his retreating form
with a slight smile pulling at the corners of her
perfect muzzle, perfect tail and immaculate whiskers twitching. A challenge!
Accepted.
Walking swiftly, wondering if his master and
protector Qan-af-årael had finally fallen, was
still fighting, or had escaped, Charles darted
quick glances in doors as he passed. Each seemed
more alluring than the last, but at the same time
more revolting to his morals. Taking a corner
when the path turned, he found a pair standing
or, rather, leaning in the corner of two walls.
A woman, perfectly human in form and beauty, was
pinned against the corner with her legs wrapped
about the swarthy muscular hips of a man whose
clothes had been shed only enough to accomplish the task.
Something told Charles that the man was more than
he appeared; some itch deep in his gut told him
that he looked upon an entity as sinister as
Tallakath's insectile nurses. The demon had its
back to him, his head bent to the woman's
shoulder. Quickly sidling around them Charles saw
in the woman's face not rapture or even pleasure at all.
What he saw was a deep, unappeasable frustration
as desperate as the lady at the table. While the
two couple with boundless energy in the public
venue of the yellow floored passageway Charles
knew that she had not and never would achieve
what she desired. She was as much a tortured soul
as those clambering madly after foods that became
dust in their hands. The woman's fingers clawed
at the demon's back in the throes of rapturous
pleasure that her body felt but her soul could
not; an appetite that could never be slaked no
matter how she yearned for that release just
once that would allow her damned soul to slip free its bonds of lust.
Backing down the corridor until he felt safe that
the demon would not turn, with the woman's hungry
eyes boring into him as if wondering that he
might offer her what the demon could not, Charles
felt his upper lip curl from his teeth. Clearly,
the hellish being was achieving precisely what
his victim wanted, while she was denied.
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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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