Monday, November 28, 2011
Behind him rose the small, yet ornately decorated manor house of his lord, Stanis, whose wealth was accumulated through false promises to those desperate enough to turn to him for succor. The manor was surrounded by open land sloping gently down to the building. Its moat was filled with the dreams and hopes of the sick who sought relief at its doors.
Lightning flashed, arcing through the air between cloud and servant, drawn to the idiotic pomp enshrouding Marcus. Bolt after bolt zigged and zagged to the metal man, and every one then being drawn to the manor house and the lord watching from its lone turret. The more Marcus shook his fist impotently at the sky, the more frequent and powerful grew the display of light. He would as soon try to silence a speaker of truth as stop the storm about to plunge him, and his Stanis, under a flood.
To put this all in context, check out the posts linked by Liz Ditz, Josephine Jones and Anarchic Teapot. For how the storm started, check out Rhys Morgan and Le Canard Noir. And if you like this little story or think that the tin man needs some more well-directed shocks, please consider sharing this on Twitter.