CAMELOT DIMENSION 360
The Long Winter
Written by Author
Daton L Fluker
Flemish Translation done by
CHAPTER 4 YOU INVITED ME HERE! NOW HELP ME GET BACK HOME! IV
The new Lord gets up off the floor with his inoperable heart and soulful thoughts. He sits down in the thrown. The more the dawn arises, the more the hours pierce into the clouds and further into the morning. The daybreak seeps into the windows. The warmth from the sun rays haze the fluids from the blood stains on the table constructing the steam to dance around in vapor circles. Breaking the silence, someone enters.
Startling and causing him to jerk his head toward the door into the direction of the offender, a young teenage boy appears. Carrying some arrows and a bow to present to Lord Matchbox, the teenager is an Archer in the Camelot’s army.
Lord Matchbox is confounded in his own circlet, orbiting into a crisis or a mental breakdown.
“Just set them on the table and leave.”
The young man acknowledges his request. He puts the bow and arrows on the table and looks around the room.
The boy thinks to himself, “Royalty shouldn’t be living like this.” This is how rumors get started. He turns around and leaves out the door. Ultimately, Lord Matchbox is alone again. Without wasting anytime, he goes over to the table. Picking up the bow, he stands with his feet shoulder with a part. It is important when aiming a bow to keep your body in a straight position. He stands unbowed with his head directly attaining for the ceiling.
Taking the arrow and placing it on the knocking point; he pulls the line back, keeping his elbow even with the bow. The bow lines up with his nose while his eyes aim down the string and down the arrow tip. There isn’t an aiming sight so shooting this particular type of arrow takes a certain skill. Well, doing it this way apparently.
He lifts the head up toward one of the statues of his father on the ceiling and releases the bow-string. Breaking off the statue’s head, the arrow sinks into the wall. Preparing to reload it in the same fashion, he continues to shoot the statues until he clears the room with them.
Arrow-heads are stuck in the ceiling, and bits and pieces of stone are on the floor. However, that still doesn’t feed his raging craving for retribution. Lord Matchbox takes the bow and breaks it in half.
The Passing Tory from the Kingdom of Anthropophagite
Surrounding the Passing Tory, eight swordsmen and six archers won’t let him leave the hill. The Passing Tory paces back and forth, looking out at the crowd, staring back at him. He is considered to be the hangman, plus if he is harmed in anyway, then their entire kingdom could be brought down to dust. Everyone in the village is just as evil and corrupted now as the people of Anthropophagite. They have savored the blood of their brothers. The clouds are blackening. Everything turns dark. The bad weather games its way into the clear skies. However, this time it’s not snow clouds. It’s the calling of a rainstorm. It will soon scale across the land and flood its empty rivers with pure fresh water. Clouds like this would pose for seven days and seven nights. That’s 24 hours multiplied by seven, which is an equivalent to 196 hours of water fall.
The soldiers have taken off the Passing Tory’s mask but something is terribly wrong with his face. His features are obscured, and it is kind of like staring at someone with double vision.
His head has been split in half with some type of iron frame tearing into his skull. Perhaps he had this trinket on since birth. His people always wear some form of a cover or black veil because of the unattractiveness in their appearance.
Today the Passing Tory has been unmasked. The irritable crowd makes him impatient, so he bellows and wails out noises like a small animal while flapping his hands at them. He speaks. His voice is weak and frail like a little girl’s voice or a baby pig. The whole village quiets down to listen. Scared children are frightened, not just because of the circumstances, but they are also terrified of their-own family members. The villager’s faces are dirty, their teeth are yellow, and none of them have taken a bath for almost one decade. They stare back. He holds his hands out and points to one of the village women. He says,
“Only if life was as sudden as the wind panting through her hair; the smell I earn for it.”
He takes one of the cut fingers from off his bracelet and chews it. A few people in the crowd throw up because of his disgusting face.
PASSING TORY (CONT’D)
“Kin burns a fire in my soul that is everlasting. I’ll be your hunger-full nightmare. It’s a conception to me that we all can’t be someone’s meal. If someone offers to feast on you then you should let them. Everybody deserves this type of therapy but most never get it. How can you judge me? I have given you what you wanted. Didn’t I? Something to tide you over for the winter.”
Unexpectedly kicked open, the doors on Town Hall are heard a mile away. Making a loud crashing noise Lord Matchbox storms out of Town Hall, gripping his sword in a guarded position. He heads for the Passing Tory. The mayor stands next to the creature not saying a word. He looks concerned and worried about the Lords hasty actions.
The Passing Tory yells out to him,
“Your people called me! There were so many hungry people! I only did what I was told to do! You should let your rage out on them and not on…”
Suddenly, the mayor punches him in the nose.
Lord Matchbox increases faster toward their direction.
“Sir… Don’t do this! If we kill him then this’ll initiate a big war between Anthropophagite Kingdom and ours! We’re in the wrong! This won’t solve anything…”
The Mayor can’t stop him. He tries to give Lord Matchbox some advice, but he won’t take it. It’s a commercialized event. However, the viewers are attending with hungry stomachs and delusional frowns, causing most of them to carry about in disbelief. They stare and watch this derangement of events occur. The crowd stays quiet.
Lord Matchbox passes the mayor. The Passing Tory screams something. Nevertheless, the Lord’s racing thoughts drowned everything out. For some reason, he can’t even sense the coldness, let alone hearing The Passing Tory’s screechy little voice. No matter what hallucination he is having, he cannot block out the Mayors loud voice.
“Sir… Think about all these people and their family members! If you do this, you’ll bring shame and war on all of us! Think about their futures!”
Like a tiger stalking its prey, the Lord stares at The Passing Tory. The crowd watches. Snow falls from the sky, and dust clouds formulate in the distance.
Matchbox grips his sword. He swings it toward the Passing Tory’s neck, cutting off the finger bracelet. It falls to the ground.
The Lord turns to the people.
“Look at us! How can we let someone like this come into our community? You ate your own family members. If that wasn’t the worse site for me and the others watching from those windows, then I don’t know what is?”
He points his sword out to the windows of Town Hall.
LORD MATCHBOX (CONT’D)
“You ate innocent children! Think about how many young people and their mother’s and father’s lives you have destroyed! What if this new day never comes? Who’ll you answer to? Who’ll you blame for your actions? You stand there, and look up, and all you see is a monster!”
He guides his sword to The Passing Tory.
LORD MATCHBOX (CONT’D)
“And I watch this creature, this freak, kill pristine newborns! New life… And you watched it to!”
He pauses and catches his breath.
“And you suspect me as your Lord to get revenge on this misguided soul! His whole kingdom is anomalous! Got Dam… You cursed yourselves!”
He directs all his attention on The Passing Tory.
“Walk away now!”
The Passing Tory is being ignorant, not listening to him. He knows the Lord has no jurisdiction or power to hurt him.
“Well… What will I eat on my journey home?”
Annoyed of the Passing Tory’s squeaky voice, Lord Matchbox could only speak with his blade. He chops the Passing Tory’s arm off from the elbow joint. The Tory screams in scrutinizing pain.
“Aw! My arm, it hurts!”
Blood from his open laceration spills on the hill; the fat dupe falls backwards. The lord yells at him.
“You moron, eat yourself! Someone… Knot his arm up so he won’t bleed to death! And don’t give him any treatment! Send him back to his Kingdom with his fucking arm!”
Two workers bring some old clothes and tie his arm up. The stub is still hemorrhaging. It won’t stop bleeding out.
Lord Matchbox isn’t through devouring him. Tears of hate roll down the Lords face as he watched him throw 13 babies into the pot of boiling water, which is now blazing in front of him. He says with a concerned voice.
“Looks like his arm isn’t going to stop bleeding, I have an idea!”
He raises his sword to the people and screams.
LORD MATCHBOX (CONT’D)
“Stick it in the pot!”
The Passing Tory tries to fight. However, some workers, and warriors hold him in place. They bring him toward the hot water.
A person from out of the crowd yells,
PERSON IN CROWD
Then the other people begin to cry out.
“All hell Lord Matchbox…”
The roar commences weak at first, but every time the town’s people yell, their screams ignite catching like a wildfire. The water is scalding hot. The men can’t fully get the Passing Tory in the pot. The Mayor walks beside them and grabs The Passing Tory by the neck. He shoves the stub deep into the scalding water. Some of the water splashes out in one of the worker’s face changing the texture of his skin into an instant florid. He falls to the ground holding it screaming.
“Help, someone help me!”
The Tory protects his face with his other arm. Another worker stops and begins throwing dirt and ice on the worker’s face.
The hot water splashes on the Mayor’s arm and his armor. The vapor loafs about in the air combusting his body’s liquids. He doesn’t seem concerned about his skin melting. Everyone knows the Mayor relishes pain. He permits the water to scold him. The Passing Tory arm cooks quite nicely. He screams.
“I’m sorry! Please! It’s so hot! Aw… Stop, Stop!”
The living cells in his arm changes from carved meat to a boiled subsistence. The Mayor holds him there for more than thirty seconds. The rest of the men had to let go. However, the Mayor keeps him in place. When the Mayor gets enough of the hot water, he pulls the Passing Tory back throwing him to the icy dirt.
“Throw him his arm!”
One of the workers picks the Passing Tory’s arm up and throws it at him. It falls in the center of his chest. Speaking to the Passing Tory,
“Go! Get out of my sight before I change my mind!”
His voice rises over the crowd’s roar.
Lord Matchbox screams out to them.
Everybody goes quiet.
LORD MATCHBOX (CONT’D)
“Look at the way we are living? We are savages! I’m throwing a Truce on the city as of today! You all can leave if you want! You cowards should kill yourselves for the crimes you all committed! If it wasn’t for your new Mayor! I would have you all murdered!”
Sitting in a social position, the worker, who has been scalded, packs snow on his face.
His face has been melted. His eyes have turned to a solid white.
“Go about yourselves. Never call me a coward for doing this! You all are weak.”
The soldiers lay their weapons down. When a kingdom goes into a truce, the army must drop all their arms and become workers. Matchbox throws his sword to the ground and retires to Town Hall.