In keeping with the same festive vein, a short story featuring That Most Festive Of Characters... A dark room. Crackling logs in a fireplace. A great, leather-bound armchair sits facing the flames, a bottle and a glass on the table next to it. The man sitting in the chair is quiet. Very quiet. Contemplative. Sitting on each arm of the chair is a mask. Simple, leather. One white, showing signs of use - its not really even anymore, and looking at the back reveals burn marks. The beak has been knocked askew and repaired, but imperfectly. The other is dark brown. New. The man rises. His face obscured in shadow, he crosses the room, taking a sword from a plaque. Reverently, he takes it in his right hand, reaching out, the crossguard level with his shoulder, the blade parallel to the floor. Movement. The blade flashes, catching a purple light from... somewhere. And the white mask falls to the floor in two halves. A taloned hand takes the other, lacing it onto his head. From the dark mask to his carefully polished boots, the only splashes of colour are the deep red of his jacket and the yellowed bone protruding from his hands. For a few long moments, there is silence before sleigh bells and hooves. Loud footsteps on the roof, a loud metallic wrenching - and a crash, as a large figure lands in the fireplace. Jury watches impassively as Santa picks himself up and dusts himself off, picking up a burlap sack from behind him and hurriedly making his way toward a glass cabinet - away from the neat, minimally adorned Christmas tree in the opposite corner. He manages five steps before he spots the silent watcher on the chair. Santa Claus. Saint Nicholas. Kris Kringle. Many names, one person. There are those who would claim you nothing more than a myth. He can sense the worry of this bearded interloper. He leaves the sword leaning against his chair as he rises... And you are. Nothing. But. A. Myth. A myth given new life by the circumstances we find ourselves in. A glass bauble, drawn from the sack, smashes against the wall behind Jury. He pays no attention. You broke into my home. I had a grille installed in that chimney. At this point, the fear is palpable. You came here to steal from me, didnt you? Almost entirely frozen, the red-suited man can only nod in assent. You are an embarassment. Like so many others, you were blessed. Blessed with strength, with power. With responsibility. And you do nothing to earn it. Instead, you lie, and steal. You betray those who hold you close. By my right as one of the True Empowered, False Saint, I judge you guilty of crime beyond measure, of the potential to damage our cause beyond repair. And in a sudden burst of movement, now-red claws rake across the intruders chest, piercing flesh, carving bone. A thin line of blood drips from his mouth before he is pushed backwards into the fireplace. And Jury returns to his chair, silently waiting... And thats how Jury saved Christmas!
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 21:47:59 +0000
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