The Dresden Files / Bob / #35. Transmit
Title: For Him the Bell Tolls
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files
Characters: Hrothbert
Prompt: 35. Transmit
Word Count: 645
Rating: G
Summary: A transition between masters.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The chapel bell tolled the news with a somber, sonorous tone. Long anticipated, it was a death knell for the old Earl, gone at last to his just reward.
May he burn in hell, thought the ghost of Hrothbert of Bainbridge.
Standing at the window of the highest tower, he looked out beyond the castle's exquisitely manicured lawns and gardens, over fields ready for harvest to the village hovels that made up the Earl's tiny (now former) kingdom. The bell's news signaled the beginning of the traditional month of mourning for all within the sound of its tone but he imagined that the serfs and vassals would much prefer to celebrate. The Earl had been a cruel and harsh lord. Perhaps none knew that better than the dead and damned sorcerer who had been his slave for the better part of a century.
"Enjoy your respite while you may," Hrothbert warned the tiny hamlet whose denizens remained blissfully ignorant of the true meaning of the Earl's passing. "As will I."
Far worse was yet to come.
Hrothbert turned his back on the window to scowl at the all-too-familiar tower laboratory. A miserly and suspicious man, the Earl had kept his sanctuary under lock and key, the heavy iron bands on the oaken door reinforced and warded against any would-be thief seeking access to the mysteries within. Bound to his skull for all eternity, Hrothbert had not been permitted to move so much as an inch beyond this chamber in over 58 years. But all of the locks and wards in the world could not save the old man from the Reaper's scythe. Slow, inexorable, and excruciatingly painful, Death came at last to claim its prize in the dark watches of the night.
Poison, thought Hrothbert with a sour expression. From what he had seen and heard of the old man's symptoms and complaints, he was absolutely certain of the cause if not the specific toxin. And not the least bit surprised.
The Earl had been a disagreeable man who dabbled in dubious magics. On more than one occasion, he had abducted a hapless peasant or two in order to test the effectiveness of a new potion or charm. Whether the magics worked or no, the peasants were never seen or heard from again by kith or kin.
But oh, what a terrible legacy the old man had left in the wake of his passing! A cruel and harsh lord the Earl might have been, but his sins paled in comparison to that of his son, Caligula to the sire's Tiberius.
Petulant, notoriously ill-tempered, and a talentless wizard who openly dabbled in the Black, the younger Earl had made no secret of his envy and jealousy. He had long coveted his father's power and possessions, chief among them the ghost of one of history's most notorious necromancers, cursed to serve whoever possessed his mortal skull.
Hrothbert suspected it was the son who had taken a hand in the old Earl's demise. Patience was not one of his virtues.
Assuming he has any to speak of, thought Hrothbert grimly as he idly passed a spectral hand through the skull resting upon its customary shelf. As the centuries passed, it became difficult to think of it as his. The skull had not belonged to him for a very long time…
The ghost sighed and allowed his hand to drop to his side. At least he would be granted a month's respite between masters while the vassals observed the customary period of mourning. How long would the son wait before coming to claim his inheritance?
The heavy thud of booted footsteps on stone steps and the muffled jingle of keys brought his gaze to the ironbound door. Magic flared as the wards began to unravel and yield.
Hrothbert sighed and briefly hung his head.
Apparently, not long at all.
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files
Characters: Hrothbert
Prompt: 35. Transmit
Word Count: 645
Rating: G
Summary: A transition between masters.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The chapel bell tolled the news with a somber, sonorous tone. Long anticipated, it was a death knell for the old Earl, gone at last to his just reward.
May he burn in hell, thought the ghost of Hrothbert of Bainbridge.
Standing at the window of the highest tower, he looked out beyond the castle's exquisitely manicured lawns and gardens, over fields ready for harvest to the village hovels that made up the Earl's tiny (now former) kingdom. The bell's news signaled the beginning of the traditional month of mourning for all within the sound of its tone but he imagined that the serfs and vassals would much prefer to celebrate. The Earl had been a cruel and harsh lord. Perhaps none knew that better than the dead and damned sorcerer who had been his slave for the better part of a century.
"Enjoy your respite while you may," Hrothbert warned the tiny hamlet whose denizens remained blissfully ignorant of the true meaning of the Earl's passing. "As will I."
Far worse was yet to come.
Hrothbert turned his back on the window to scowl at the all-too-familiar tower laboratory. A miserly and suspicious man, the Earl had kept his sanctuary under lock and key, the heavy iron bands on the oaken door reinforced and warded against any would-be thief seeking access to the mysteries within. Bound to his skull for all eternity, Hrothbert had not been permitted to move so much as an inch beyond this chamber in over 58 years. But all of the locks and wards in the world could not save the old man from the Reaper's scythe. Slow, inexorable, and excruciatingly painful, Death came at last to claim its prize in the dark watches of the night.
Poison, thought Hrothbert with a sour expression. From what he had seen and heard of the old man's symptoms and complaints, he was absolutely certain of the cause if not the specific toxin. And not the least bit surprised.
The Earl had been a disagreeable man who dabbled in dubious magics. On more than one occasion, he had abducted a hapless peasant or two in order to test the effectiveness of a new potion or charm. Whether the magics worked or no, the peasants were never seen or heard from again by kith or kin.
But oh, what a terrible legacy the old man had left in the wake of his passing! A cruel and harsh lord the Earl might have been, but his sins paled in comparison to that of his son, Caligula to the sire's Tiberius.
Petulant, notoriously ill-tempered, and a talentless wizard who openly dabbled in the Black, the younger Earl had made no secret of his envy and jealousy. He had long coveted his father's power and possessions, chief among them the ghost of one of history's most notorious necromancers, cursed to serve whoever possessed his mortal skull.
Hrothbert suspected it was the son who had taken a hand in the old Earl's demise. Patience was not one of his virtues.
Assuming he has any to speak of, thought Hrothbert grimly as he idly passed a spectral hand through the skull resting upon its customary shelf. As the centuries passed, it became difficult to think of it as his. The skull had not belonged to him for a very long time…
The ghost sighed and allowed his hand to drop to his side. At least he would be granted a month's respite between masters while the vassals observed the customary period of mourning. How long would the son wait before coming to claim his inheritance?
The heavy thud of booted footsteps on stone steps and the muffled jingle of keys brought his gaze to the ironbound door. Magic flared as the wards began to unravel and yield.
Hrothbert sighed and briefly hung his head.
Apparently, not long at all.