Victrus Rosenburg was frustrated. He'd searched the house from top to bottom, closed off rooms as he did so, trying to corral the intruder. Once, upstairs, he'd felt the distinct impression he was missing something horribly vital.
He'd dismissed it, because obviously nothing was there.
Just as obviously, though he'd discovered items moved into rooms he was certain neither he nor the movers had so much as opened to air out, no one was in the house with him.
And yet, at 3 AM, the status quo was found to be reversed AGAIN, the "fixing" unfixed and then "fixed" once more, no cold brandy to shake himself awake, no wax comfortingly dripped upon the floor. He tugged on the long strands of his hair, driven to growling at shadows.
Driven to reconsider the carefully penned note attached to the will, to consider things that made him scoff at himself. And growl again, because he was losing FAR too much practice time--and missing too much paying work--to what the supernaturally indulgent (delusional) people in Valesport would term a horrible, musical instrument-torturing sprite.
He honestly considered calling in one of them to get their take, decided it wasn't worth it. The man who thought he was a dragon would merely flit about his personal space and declare ghosts or some such, and Vic didn't have time for nonsense. And though it might help to know which legends to read up on, which to sort through and which to discard for the superstition that it was, Vic also didn't have time to slot fairy tales touted as truth into his more proper, human-condition-centric literature.
Mostly because he was spending it all on repairing things that shouldn't have needed it.
He relit the candles, watching the dance of light upon the walls. Suitable, considering the mood he found himself in, considering the shadows he wanted to smite. Oh, he would find the culprit. Even if it meant...this. A slight shudder went down his spine and he straightened, shaking the sensation away. There really wasn't another option left at this point. He couldn't exact violence upon that which he couldn't find.
"Fine, then. We shall indulge." Vic dug through his things searching for a blank sheet of paper with which to pen a warning of his own. He came up with only staff paper, which was hardly suitable for such plebeian usage.
"To the fixer," he wrote, words broken between lines because for the life of him he couldn't sort out how NOT to write in measured beats of the ledger. "This house is mine. There are rules. Instruments too. To be played. Never polished. In gratitude. Vic Rosenburg."
Note written and set aside, he sifted through his cabinets and emerged with a sealed jar he'd never intended to use for this purpose. But the note had specified the sweet substance, and he was just concerned enough with irony to bring it along. Sugar would do one of two things, neither of which was really clear given his aunt's postmortem missive. Either it would rid him of the spirit, a protection circle of sorts, perhaps, or it would reward it for all of the horrible work it had accomplished. As Vic couldn't see how destroying his musical belongings was a particularly good thing, he assumed it must be the former. Sugar, rather than salt, a well-known tactic for ghosts that even he had heard of. Sugar, forestalling an impossible, supernatural being with a grudge against stringed instruments.
If this was to work, he would hardly do it by half measure. Just as with the house-intrusion prevention set up, Vic spent the day setting up an array, dish upon dish surrounding the strings, and then, when he ran out of bowls and plates and cups and spoons and the lids of butter and cream cheese containers (the tubs of which were left out on the counter because he meant to cover them and return them to the fridge but became subsequently sidetracked by the unpolishing), he made circles. Circles around his candles, specifically, and a great, massive sugar circle--thin, because he'd nearly run out and had to make sure he'd left enough to go around his bed come late afternoon--surrounded his piano.
It was ridiculous, and it smelled like the inside of the damn Keebler Elf tree.
Minus the chocolate.
Vic scrubbed at his face with his palms, managing to get in an extended session of rehearsal, a delightfully dark In the Hall of the Mountain King to sing out on a newly unfixed cello. If all that came from this ridiculousness was that he got ants, he was not going to be pleased.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-17-2015, 11:49 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-18-2015, 01:27 AM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 11-18-2015, 03:44 PM
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RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 03-16-2017, 11:17 PM
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