MavenOfClockwork

A very large fire is blazing in the fireplace, flames white with intense heat. The entire room is rippling in heat-shimmer from the high temperature of the blaze. The old man is seated in his usual pose with his book closed upon his lap. His gaze is intense, his eyes are dark. He is completely nonplussed. “Some of my favorite tales are tales of predicament,” he begins, his glasses starting to melt on his face. “What does one do when the thing that is supposed to protect them turns into their agent of ticklish destruction?” The man’s sagging skin droops lower as it begins to liquefy. Steadily every inch of his form; the chair, the bookcases, the walls, even the stone fireplace itself melt from the burning heat of the ever-raging fire. Once the room is reduced to nothing but a multicolored puddle of shimmering liquid, a scene begins to swirl on the water's surface… *** Rays of light streamed through the stained-glass windows of the small church, painting the floor with beautiful

A fire burns in the fireplace, but it is a little odd. The logs look like they were stacked like pillars, and the flames have crawled up them to look like multiple pillars of fire. Between the pillars, smaller flames race and jut around, like actors upon a stage against a black curtain. “Tonight’s story,” the old man says, though he cannot be seen. All focus is on the fire’s show. “Is about how perilous having to deal with one’s sensitivity can be while under duress.” One lick of flame separates from the rest, like a person peeling off of a crowd. That flame runs faster, trying to escape before the rest of the fire can notice. Slowly the fire solidifies from light to physicality, and a scene takes place... *** Kunai and arrows whizzed past her head as she raced through the castle halls. The monkey ninja yelped and clutched the bag she held tight to her chest. As she ran, she inspected it for any tears, sighing contentedly as she did not. Unfortunately--as was usual for her

A weak fire sputters in the hearth. The ashes of hours and hours of burning have accumulated in the fireplace, and the last dregs of firelight are being sucked out of the charcoalized logs. What little light remains barely allows the old man to be seen, a glint of reflecting off the rim of his glasses. He is looking down at his book that is open upon his lap. “Our story tonight,” the jovial tone in his voice is as unsettling as ever, compounded by the dim nature of the room, “is a humbling experience for a proud knight,” he explains, completely unmoving. It’s uncertain if his lips are even moving while he talks. With a meek crackle the last of the firelight dies, just lingering long enough to see thin lips curl into a wicked sneer before the darkness shifts to a scene… *** "Again. Drill!" A powerful female voice barked. The sand below her armored boots shifted as she paced back and forth across her regimen of soldiers on the beach, whom were all swinging their swords in time with

The fireplace crackles with a burning fire, freshly lit and ready to burn for hours. Moonlight streams through the window, adding to the illumination. The old man is seated upon his chair, glasses hanging off his hooked nose as he looks down at his book. “Hello again,” he greets, not looking up from his tome. He has a quill in his left hand, writing something upon the page. The scratching of the tip is a monotonous, but off-putting noise. It’s chilling for reasons that are unable to be quantified. “Our first story of the year is a classic tale of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says. The scratching gets louder. “Let us see how the unfortunate circumstance unfolds, shall we?” The scratching grows thunderously loud, the last of his words even being consumed by the intensity of the sound. Soon enough the very scene appears to melt and distort with the fraying quill scratches, until a scene builds itself up, and the scratching fades into it... *** "Ah, are you

Twilight streams through the window of the study, giving everything in the room an orange hue. The fireplace is dark, fresh logs stacked up in the hearth, waiting to be ignited. Despite the lack of inner lighting the room is fully illuminated; granted an unnatural glow by the mere presence of the scene. The ornate chair--as weathered as ever--sits perfectly positioned next to the fireplace, completely empty. Its red velvet cushion is dusty, like a millennia of stillness has settled upon it. The room itself looks frozen in time. “Welcome once more, friends.” A familiar, dark voice calls from nowhere, reverberating through the bookshelf-clad walls. The hard clacking of heels on wood follows the words, slowly and monotonously echoing. With each step, they grow louder. Louder. Louder. The old man fades in from the shadows next to his seat. His long lanky body is hunched over, giving him a feeble but menacing presence. In one hand is a glass, the liquid inside unknown but taking the same