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Nightfall soon reached; I had stocked the halls of the manor, looking for the titular man the estate was named after. I soon found him— he had been in his office which I graciously took the liberty to knock upon entry— and spoke kindly to him.
“ Why, Elder Custard Sir, work still eats at you? Even at such a late time?” I honeyed my tone, stamping a joyous smile upon my face for him.
Nodding tiredly, he agreed with my sentiments, and slumped back into his pale yellow plush chair. Beautiful golden patterns adorned the face of the chair. It flowed along the fabric, golden vines with golden leaves, gracefully weaving into one another. The arms of the chair were a fine dark brown, an umber or hickory color, and had a glossy look to them. His desk, an expensive ivory. Ostentatious wealth, prosperity, and power emanated throughout the entire bureau, hell, throughout the entirety of House Custard itself.
I regained focus once more as he ran a hand through his hair, tuning back into his drab complaining. Custard went on, “… and getting things in order after Dark Enchantress’s attack has still been a pain! Even now, 2 years over!” Holding two fingers against his temple, he slouched forward, flicking his pen irritably in his other hand over a mess of papers. A groan escaped his lips.
Mountainous stacks of paper enclosed him in— what any other man would call easy— “hard labor”, so I responded as any amicable man should, “ Poor Elder, I hear you. So laborious, that sounds. Why I’d say you should take some time for leisure!” I was now seated in one of the smaller less extravagant bureau chairs that were stationed in front of Custard’s desk, facing him. They were a dark forestry green, matching the green carpeted flooring.
“Perhaps you are right Abalone,” he set down his pen, and pushed his chair back, releasing him from the confides of his desk. As he neared me, I stood, and—putting his hands to his sides—Custard spoke, “ say, since you’re going on about relaxation, how about you have dinner with me, hm?”
What an interesting proposal that was. Of course, I didn’t decline, and—upon my approval to his request—he smiled, putting a hand to my back as I let him lead me to his balcony. I inferred, at the time, he was taking me to his dining room I had seen earlier that day. A chandelier that glimmered and shined a bright canary and golden color. My eyes had reddened at the sight, but I kept my resolve in spite of it. It was disappointing that he hadn’t taken me there nonetheless.
Anyhow, we reached his balcony, passing a few servants and guards on the way. One guard had followed us. Peculiar it was then, but now I know of the particularly passionate and pathetic man dog who had decided to follow us, me in particular. As if I was some sort of danger to the Elder. A pest if you will. The little pup furrowed his brows at me from behind; I could see him, I could see him and his little red pup ears fraying downwards in agitation. The mutt glared, almost having bared his teeth at me with such intensity that it breached utter hilarity for me.
Even now as I recollect the event, laughter still bubbles up to my throat from the sight.
The balcony had a small glass table and two white wired chairs. I acted quickly, pulling a chair out for Custard to sit, knowing that he would greatly appreciate my flattery.
And of course he did, as he said, “ Oh my!” He laughed awkwardly, but his smile and… flush that appeared on his face told me he was greatly flattered by my gesture as he sat down,” Thank you, Abalone.”
“My pleasure,” I emphasized this act of kindness with a warm smirk, taking the other seat across from him.
The solider still stood nearby, watching us. I thought it queer then and I still do now, what a peculiar one, that dog. At least his job is a fitting one, even if he performs with such a high air of loyalty and respect for his protectee. A pathetic air indeed for one to ingest; I certainly couldn’t see myself self doing in full sincerity.
Custard called out to the dog, “Scotch,” the mutt stood at attention; I noted his quickened tail wagging at Custard’s call in my mind with a flat face. Custard continued, “please, tell the kitchenette to prepare a delicious meal for me and the lovely M. Abalone, would you?” He called me “Monsieur”, it still has me intrigued, the switch to French just then. I… appreciated the attempt to sweeten me. Sadly— for him not me— I am to be bitter, salty, and hardened for all eternity.
He remained silent for a moment, glaring at me, then Scotch spoke, “ yes sir, I’ll get right to it.” He nodded and took his leave to complete this task like the good mutt he was.
Custard turned back to me; his face softened and relaxed. Drumming his fingers on the table, he chuckled and said, “ Such a good idea this was,” stretching his back, he let out a low groan and slouched in his seat. He is took in a heap of air through his nose—holding it in for a moment— and exhaled deeply, “ You smell that Abalone?”
I hadn’t smelt anything at all.
“Ah yes I do,” I lied. Whatever he was going on about, he would explain, and he did.
“Freedom, that’s what I smell. Being cooped up in that office all day does no good, I’ll tell you…” then he went on to complain about his day, because of course. Such inconsequential babblings are unnecessary to record in this journal of mine. Just know that I responded with the upmost politeness and flattery, as customary for my interactions with the Elder.
Fine, I’ll concede, not all of his rantings were unimportant; one topic of his rants had caught my attention. House Oyster… I jerked harshly at its mention. My face contorting with red hot rage and anger, my teeth gnashed; my fists clenched.
“I see you have something against the house, don’t you?” He had asked me, and ooh how I wanted to clobber him then. How dare he ask of my affairs, it was no business pertaining to him!
The urge to roar at him like I would my sailors years ago—for their disrespect and prudence—had re-emerged. My anger threatened to tear through me like a wild beast, ready to strike at him.
But I refrained, saying, “Ah,” and shrunk down. Letting my anger get the betterment of me wouldn’t have help my cause, and, thankfully, my mind came to its senses. My fist unclenched and my face softened back into my ever charming sly smile. “ Hmm… let’s focus not on the distraction that are my affairs, dear Custard.”
“Well I wouldn’t call it a distraction…” He motioned his hand in a circle, as if to invite me to elaborate, “ it could help to talk about these feelings, whatever they may be, that you have towards House Oyster and don’t worry,” he placed a finger to his lips, “ I won’t tell a soul,”
It was then that I sorely regretted my outburst, in fact I still do now, but I made do with my circumstances, “So charitable you are, Custard, to want in on my grief so, but I assure you that my cause of issue with the house is on the cusp of resolution. There is no need to dwell on a dying issue.” I reached for his hand, squeezing it a good amount to instill a feeling of comfort, “trust in this.”
“ My…” He laughed bashfully, moving his gaze away from me, “ Well if you insist, but know that any issue you have, you can tell me about it. You are employed under the great House Custard after all! I will resolve any issue that squanders you.”
What an excellent response that was, pride still swells in my chest from the encounter, as Custard shifted focus from my outburst to his own prosperity. The generation of this day is so simple and feeble minded—so easy to please with sweet gestures and honeyed words—it’s astonishing that they haven’t fallen yet. Sweet wealth and lack of hardship fattens them; the lard of flattery, my flattery, will be his and her undoing. In turn, my renewal will commence.
Dinner was brought to us not too long after by a servant; they set two golden platters before us. Fancifully, leafed vine patterns were adorned rim of them; the House Custard crest lay nestled in between each of the four terminating ends of the embellishment. The plates that held food—some kind of pork dish with vegetables and rice— had the same patterning, except it seemed to be painted or printed on.
Custard coughed expectantly; the servant ran out, coming back with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Custard hummed,satisfied, and shooed them off—presumably so he could focus fully on me. I would be flattered if he wasn’t so ignorant of the fate that will befall him soon enough. As my plan comes to fruition.
“Do you drink?” He asked me, popping open the bottle. He held a glass in his hand and gazed at me curiously.
“How could I not! Do me the honor, great Custard, and pour me a fine glass by your kind hand.” I laid it on thick right then, how disturbed. Like a thick coat of syrup—too sweet even for the most fervent and ardent sweet tooth could endure—yet Custard drank it as though it were water.
Blush formed on his face; he chuckled inwardly, saying, “And I’ll happily do that for you!” He poured the wine and mumbled—as though he didn’t want me to hear it, “so kind, so kind…”
And of course I did. Nothing has or ever will escape my ears, whether it be the skittering whispers of a mutiny back in my era of prosperity or the shy flattered mumbles of a rich man in my ongoing resurrection, I will hear it.
He handed me the glass and began to pour his own. Sipping scrupulously,I observed the man. He was considerably more disheveled now in his leisured state: one of the buttons on his uniform having been undone; his hair taking on a slight disarray with small stray strands poking out from its arrangement.
“Forgive me for the state of disarray I’m in uh,” he mumbled the word “friend” and continued, “ the pure exhaustion from my duties has finally settled in.”
I tilted my head, placing my hand on my cheek with a smile, “ My dear, there’s no need to apologize for anything. Disharmony and dishevelment for a man as fine as yourself—after such a laborious and demanding work— should be expected.” Remembering how my previous acts of flattery were taken as flirtation, I played with my performance and winked at him, “ a harding working man always gets what he’s owed.”
“Right you are about that!” He pointed his fork at me in agreement, and began to speak once more of his own prosperity while he ate.
I hadn’t eaten food in more than a life time, with centuries passing as I was trapped in the beast’s sea that it transformed. One would think I would take a saccharine joy and pleasure to partake in a ritual so prominent and detrimental as eating, yet—as the pork and carrots fought against my throat to reach its desired destination—I could do nothing more but compliment the partial delectable taste of the food to appease the Elder. Each lump of mushy bolus that maneuvered down my throat had the effect of a blade, gashing and tearing at esophagus. The only thing able to soothe me being the wine, which effortlessly slid down my throat like a well made pipe.
Custard’s voice had died down a little, his focus now shifting more towards eating; however, he kept peering up at me, quizzically. For once I felt exposed, like he was reading me, perusing through my thoughts like it had been written down plain as day in a journal. Just like the one I’m writing now. My! A terrible feeling it was; yet the worse was yet to come.
My body betrayed me. Going against all my effort, all the composure I had built into my appearance, my body could not sustain that it in the way it should have. It caved, my body caved, from weakness. From a carrot no less.
I had taken a piece of carrot to my lips and place it in my mouth, chewing it slowly and thoroughly as a voice in my mind foretold my inevitable future, a future I wanted to avoid, so I kept on over chewing my food. Feeling as the carrot was as mushy as mush could get, I attempted to swallow it. A lump formed in my throat; I tried harder to swallow it. I jerked in my seat and stood abruptly. Lodged it was, somehow, that mush of carrot was lodged in my throat.
What a terrible situation, oh, what a horrible plight I was in! Although now I know I was in no real danger—I hadn’t needed air for over two hundred years; surely a minute or two more without it would do me no harm— yet death still held its grip on my mind in that moment. I strode away from table and began to beat on my chest, coughing, trying desperately to clear my throat.
He turned in his seat and leapt forward, “ Abalone, goodness, are you okay?” He asked as he ran to me. I continued to wheeze and beat on my chest wildly. In my annoyance and panic, I hadn’t responded to him. I was utterly shocked when Custard wrapped his arms around my torso and shoved me into the balcony railing. He continued to thrust me into it, his body ramming into mine with such… power. Each slam taking the wind out of my soul, only for it to be brought back the moment after. Just for it to be taken out once more. Goodness.
Eventually the mush came hurling out of my mouth, splatters of it nestled into my beard and around my lips. I gasped for useless air; he turned me around, taking hold of my face.
Worry swelled in his eyes and his pupils flickered wildly has he gazed upon me. His breathing was heavy, it was the closest thing he had ever experienced to a life or death situation I assume. A sigh of relief came from him as he leaned his weight into me, saying, “Oh thank the Divine, you’re okay. Ha!”
My heart dropped when he looked back up at me. A queer sensation fluttered in my chest.
I still haven’t a clue as to what this feeling was; however, for now, I’ll dubbed it as a queer appreciation and annoyance towards his ultimately vain attempt at resurrection. It is a close enough description, I suppose.
A look of utter relief and compassion held firm in his eyes; his hand still holding my face. I remained silent, confused by the happenings that occurred seconds ago.
“You are alright, aren’t you?” He asked, then he focused closer on the lower half of my face. Right then, I regained my composure, and realizing the disorderly mess that was my person, reached for the handkerchief in my pocket. But he had beat me to it, unfortunately, and had taken out his own.
Before I could react, Elder Custard had already begun to wipe the mush that was snuck in my beard. I became as still and ridged as a brick wall; my body dared not to move as if cemented in place. Once done with my beard, he folded the handkerchief to a cleaner edge and brought it towards my lip; I turned away. For once, the fire of embarrassment had scorched my heart, as I had been so foolish to let such a pitifully demeaning situation occur. My face felt hot, and Custard, the bastard, he laughed! Laughed in my face.
The nerve of this man. It annoys me.
“M. Abalone, your face—“
“I’m aware, forgive my insolence. I intended to clean it myself—“
“Nonsense, I’ll help you. Let me just,” Begrudgingly, I allowed him to turn my head so that I was facing him. Time seemed to have slowed then, as the Elder brought the soft decorative cloth to lip and gently cleaned the area around them. The aroma of the cloth still lingers in my mind. A sweet vanilla, a dash of burnt oak and cashmere wood. Yes that was the aroma, although it is unnecessary to note.
Backing way, I knew he had finished, and he took a proud stance. He said, “ There, I have restored you to your handsome glory,” a sly smirk showed on his face and I rolled my as he continued, “ no need to thank me.”
“Right,” my arms laid crossed over my torso; my stare was blank. For once, I thought it clever to display my mild annoyance to him, just to gauge his reaction.
Stammering nervously, he faltered, and babbled, “ I-I mean you’ve always been handsome! A little bit of carrot is unlikely to really change that, ha!”
An observation I’ve made, as situations like this very one have occurred more frequently; especially towards persons outside of House Custard, is that the Elder will die on pleasantries. He’s a very calculated man, just like myself, which is admirable. I’ve seen him sly and reword possibly atrocious statements into a fine enough compliment or stale unassuming comment enough times to know that he values his portrayal greatly. However something within him flipped this night, as his turn towards politeness was atrocious itself.
Or perhaps it was just a jest. A quip.
No matter. It doesn’t matter, not now as I write this entry anyway.
“Should we get back to dining?” Custard asked.
I nodded, ”Yes,” and so we continued on as before. Chatting. I refrained from the meal set before me, opting to drink the wine instead.
Swirling the glass of wine in my hand as he spouted on, I knew it would take more time than anticipated for me to eat the fruit of this grueling labor. It was thankless and humiliating, but what else was I to do? Let Lord Oyster’s legacy live on while mine is cover to the wayside, lost to time. My name appears nowhere, not even in the various books that parade the fallacious origin of House Oyster’s glory and prosperity. My name was scraped from history.
I made him who he was; yet he unmade me. His creator. How blasphemous.
My raving aside, Custard is my key. Yes, and with him the doorway, not only to prosperity, but also to my revenge will be unlocked.
In due time, and all I need to do now is wait.
Entry: 25;Week 6
Sighed: Captain Abalone of the—now resurrected—Ruthless Ambrose
Quick note: I obtained a cigar not too long after finishing this entry. This modern day never ceases to disappoint me. Everything they’ve touched has become worse—now I cannot even smoke without feeling like I’ve been cheated—especially with the exorbitant cost. How shameful.