Young Writers Society

Obligatory Authors notes-

Hurray, another start to a series. This one, unlike so many others, I'm determined to finish. So, here's the intro, and, to whom it may concern...

Tear this to shreds.

The dirigible drifted lazily over the city. Colourful sails were splayed wide, arching over the single large balloon that kept the aircraft afloat. A generously sized tarp hung over the balloon, its rich purples and brilliant golds dulled by the moonlight. The city stretched out beneath, a sea of dark tiles. Amidst the wider, central streets, fiercely burning lamps were strewn amidst the banners and flags.

The dining car of the dirigible was a room laden with indulgence. It seemed that not an inch of the room had been spared from being polished and gilded. The extravagant meal set on the central table was near untouched, ordered there by the host more as a formality than from necessity. Bottles of liquor however, had not been spared. Bottles cluttered any space to be spared on the tables. Some lay on the floor, cast aside. Many were simply in the hands of the guests, crystal glasses long forgotten in the haze of intoxication. Brilliant shafts of light struck the room from the crystal chandelier, highlighting the otherwise quite loathsome scene.

The guests, some of the most influential figures in the city, sat in a rough circle of padded chairs, which had been unceremoniously heaved over by the servants, who were now quietly battling to mask their disdain in the corners of the room, along with two guards. Drunken laughs punctuated the conversation at regular intervals. Although, as conversation assumes that another partakes in it, it was more of a speech than a conversation. The speech was being delivered by the host for the evening, Lord Baelrom, a rather stout man with but a few hairs stubbornly clinging onto his balding head, and a grey stubble on his chin. His small, dark eyes were now glazed and unfocused. His waistcoat was open, revealing a shirt that bore several blotches of fallen wine, and a number of other unidentifiable substances. He was presently prattling in a knowing manner.

“…well, you see, the fellow has been chasing me all month about his factory. I’ve told my assistant to burn any that come my way now. It’s simply all you can do with these people, from the lower classes.” A chorus of distracted murmurs of agreement followed.

One of the older men in the circle, Lord Daemon, clicked his fingers impatiently, signalling a servant. One walked over, offering a tray of Valerian Red Wine. The Old man eyed the label with dismay, accepting a glass. After a dissatisfied sip, he addressed Baelrom.

“Jack, eh? I know the man, met him once. I believe he was doing some work for a friend of mine, in the Western Quarter. Quite insufferable, yes…” The man trailed off, taking a sip of his wine.

For a moment, the party followed suit, sipping, casting bored looks around the room.

“We need more wine, that’s it!” Exclaimed one of the women, Lady Salriem.

“I think I’ll be retiring for the evening, myself” replied another woman, Lady Kael, one of the less intoxicated guests.

“I’ll have none of it! The night has hardly begun!” Cried Lord Baelrom.

Lady Kael sighed, setting her glass down. “The years grow long, Baelrom. The novelty of this festival is long past. As is the joy of it. The people make these festivals up from nothing, simply to add some cheer to a dreary year. If anything, we should be drinking this liquor to forget, rather than to celebrate”. A few murmurs of “true” and “A terrible year, yes” sounded from the various guests.

Apparently encouraged by the response of her near unconscious audience, she continued, removing some stray locks of brown hair from her eyes as she spoke. “I suppose it’s just a sign of the times. I had to reach into my inheritance for the first time last week, the first time in years, Baelrom. Did you hear the Queen is having new barriers set up around the slums? I hardly feel safe in my own home, never-mind in the markets”.

During this time, Baelrom had developed a textbook example of a panicked expression, as he spluttered to regain spirits. After a moment of desperately searching his mind for a retort, he sighed in defeat, sinking back into his chair.

“I suppose your right. You know, I’d wager we’d be better off if the Queen had simply-“

The tortured shriek of metal ripped through the dirigible, followed by a deafening crash.

The party stood, spooked by the sudden noise. The room swayed slightly. Baelrom, his face an impossible mixture of worry and relief, stood, addressing one of the servants, speaking quite loudly over the distraught buzzing that erupted from the guests.

“Go check upstairs with the captain, see what’s the meaning of this, tell him-“

He was cut off yet again, yet this time, instead of the shriek of metal, it was a ringing gunshot. Baelrom froze, pale. The two guards by the wall snapped to attention, unsheathing their blades. They each drew a gun from their belts. The guns shone dully, a standard, if highly decorated pistol. The particular model was infamous for its incredible power.

A low shuffling was heard from the next room. Footsteps.

The guests, who were frozen in place, casting uncomfortable glances around the room, relaxed slightly. It was only a single pair of footsteps. Most likely the captain coming to assure them the attack was over, or that it was a simple accident.

The door opened.

A small figure walked in, just around five feet in height. Their frame was shrouded by an ebony black cloak, its layers hung together bound by a bright, silver pin. The hood was drawn over a mask resembled the masks of the plague doctors. The mask itself was the colour of ivory, perhaps even made from the material. A dark, crimson strike ran across its surface, racing past the emotionless eyes within. Blood.

The masked figure strode in, daggers gleaming In hand.

A shot exploded from the guard’s gun, a racing ribbon of flame and smoke bolting across the room. The figure flew back, landing against the wall. The mask shattered into a thousand pieces, revealing the gruesome remains of the face, a mass of shattered skull and flesh. A scream erupted from one of the onlookers.

Lord Baelrom, who had been huddled with the guests in the back, rose, wiping sweat from his forehead with a cloth, shakily mimicking composure.

“V-very good. Very good. I’ll… you’ll be rewarded handsomely for this… I…” A shaky breath escaped him, echoed by tenfold behind him. “Would you mind checking the damage done upstairs?”

The guard nodded, turning to leave, followed the other. They readied their guns, adopting a wary stance as they left, shutting the door behind them. Baelrom turned, attempting to calm his guests.

A minute passed like this, as order began to return. Shaking hands brought drinks to quivering lips.

A low tapping came from behind. Baelrom and the other guests spun around. The corpse lay where it had. But the finger…

The finger was twitching.

Lady Salriem’s mouth hung open in a muted scream.

Blood began to crawl along the floor, scarlet droplets floating back into place. Flesh stitched itself together, winding threads spinning meat, bone, skin. The assassin’s face became whole again, as if time had been cast back as an afterthought. Eyes spun wildly in their sockets, pupils snapping into place. The woman stood, as the final strands of flesh were woven back into place. She brushed crimson stained ivory- what was left of the mask- off of her cloak. Black curtains of hair fell into place.

The guests, frozen, eyes bright in horror and disbelief.

A menacing smile curled on the assassin’s lips, bearing all the evil of whatever nightmarish God that had allowed such an occurrence. Dark eyes glinted in knowingness. She bent down, picking up her daggers in a graceful, swift motion. She turned to her audience.

“That hurt”.

And she set to work.