The Tower House Incarnated BEGs

The winged one with orbs about waited,
At the wall,
And sang a song of entry:
    plucking with plenum lyrics old and new.
A song of opening and justly thus:
stepped through.


.
..
...
....


I thrust myself through a membrane into one of the ephemera. Someones' dream, most likely, maybe one the dreamer would return to, maybe not.  These places, cast out of meaning, and usually geometrically inconsistent, were problems lately.  Lying unkept during the Unnamed-Ones long slumber, there were many.  Some with agitatingly incorrect physics, frothing-rending and crazed madmen.  In others, truly odd ones like the ones populated with inane-flashing multicolored-boxes with springs-for-feet, or even multilimbed and multiheaded childhood play aggregations, still others offered a laundry list of panoplic nightmares, and fetishes, and idealizations.

Usually the detritus of dreamery got cleared away by a host or more of deific eikones, blowing trumpets, swinging swords, and other activities similarly exhausting and athletic.  When a particular place should happen to get too thick, or perhaps even latched onto a path or sphere, threatening to bleed into one of the necessary numbers, or concepts, problems ensue.  This particular mess was resistant enough to clearing and moving.  Perhaps, because of this, it was theorized occupied by something stronger than the usual, a definite consciousness on some level; and if it was, well, I'd have to report.  That's what I was sent to do, after all; and depending on that reports contents, I would inevitably be asked for refinements and perhaps even more reports.  These in turn then would result in still more orders, perhaps a grand order of eviction, or something stronger, infolving multiple hosts.  Each possibility was thoroughly codified and stratified, ad-nauseum.  Angelic hierarchies always begged distinct consideration of importance, since time-immemorial.

I wore brown cloth, I'd noticed, and would soon materialize to stand in a city.  A dusty city with no discernable source of overhead light, and humid cool night air that sinewed about my frame as I drew further into the center of the place.  I usually ended up appropriately bulky when I incarnated in any given place, this one insisted on placing robelike garments over my wings... smoke smelling, and as the air set and grew present to me and rose into my nose; it was as if worn by a rot-smelling salt-pitted mortal beggar only moments earlier.

Apparently some kind of demented urban sensationalist had dreamed this place up, wanting no obvious supernatural elements?  I thought this odd as I looked around.

Rough caricatures of lightless structures, empty buildings, a cityscape placed about the plane of this place that crept out of sight as I strode into the cleared center and I begin to feel out, through tricks known to me, our perceptive residence within him. I struggled a bit... then heard and felt in my jawbone and ears, voices.



...
THERE LIETH DIVISION WITHIN ALL THINGS SUBDIVIDED PARTS INFINITIES SMALL AND GREAT AGGREGATIONS OF FORM CHIMERIC UNTAMED OBEISANCE MUST BE PUNISHED sssh... it hears, in our eagerness... ssssh.
...



I cough, while wondering what had just happened.  I then began feeling a tingling in what this particular slice of meat-coat I wore had (or that passed in it rather) for a brain.  To my meat-coats eyes the colors weren't right,  and I was getting butterflies in my stomach.  I'd have to keep my wits about me if I was to get through this job unscathed.

I walked from the peripheral husk neighborhood into the center of the place.  It sat under a bridge, a celestially-overascendant and unusually, improbably-crenellated tower.  It's stone construction material was weirdly blue tinged.

Directly before the tower a cobblestone Square, with a circle of plain concrete, two couches and a table-- the kind someone would find in a lounge or living room apartment.  I walked towards the modest cluster of misplaced furniture, carefully. Removing the hat from my head, and patting it a bit, as a slight cough of dust spat free from the impact.  Feeling strangely tired, I sat down at the edge of the couch and rummaged through the meat coats coat a bit... uncomfortable, but something metallic in the vestment in the vest pocketed interior.  A cap at the top of glass, a pleasant surprise to find a bottle of wine in such a place.

Drawing the bottle out and stealing a cigarette from the table (most assuredly meant for me, marked with the rune of the bird, after all) I paused for a bit to look up at the hideously oversized fireplaces in the 5th floor window, lighting the faggot with a conveniently placed and metal-jacketed faggot-lighting device.  I made myself comfortable sitting on the couch.

Streets immediately adjacent to the central spire, clear of refuse, bodies, roving packs of zombies, and the like.  There was no door visible at the tower, none from this angle anyway.  Further divisional portions of the structures geometry remained elusive, in a typically unsettling manner, perhaps a drugged nightmare, or a comatose invalid flailing away at building a construct as its very soul dissolves; driving this tick-pretender of a sphere to it's current state?

Dismissing the musing, I stood, and made way, walking veer-slopping right, cigarette in hand- trailing smoke, with a shambling gait.  That'd be northeast, I supposed at the time, to check the shorter of the two walls, the ones I couldn't see, for the elusive entrance or entrances to the structure.

My cigarette tucked tenderly 'tween index and middle right fingers, occupying the couple hundred feet pensively dragging on smoke as I rounded the corner, disappointedly noting no door;  walking, walking, walking, along the short side as I continued to the back.  I was hoping for a damned doorway so I could get on with whatever it was I was doing here.  I was fogging again.

What was it, anyway?  He was experiencing some kind of block, as to his purpose.  Was he, reporting, something-or-other, were there inhabiting deific or malefic agencies, reclining in this neither worldly nexus, spitting languidly on the pockmarked grey concrete, making trouble in the metaphysickal neighborhood?  His head was fogged a bit as he stood at the back of the tower.  Blue, the stones irregularly laid to form it, no percievable mortar.  And they seemed to slowly reshape.  Or was it more of his meat-coat tricking him.

He snapped his finger, and a thunderclap from the distant fishbowl horizon of the world echoed in, he restrengthened.

All of the intuited answers hideously vague, as I said not-really-thoughtfully:  "Guessing my way to the truth and dispelling it with a tempest of words."  I grinned at my habit of muttering paraphrasings of Ambrose Bierce, while I still could.


....
...
..
.


The Tower House Incarnated ENDs.