Ramblings, rumblings, grumblings, and rambling grumbly rumblings.

Solace ran out of the hovel, holding his prize aloft. He ran into the lane, almost colliding with a horse-drawn wagon in his haste and excitement, but little caring.

"The new body parts are here! The new body parts are here! I'm somebody!"

No, not another Solace entry. The skull arrived from the supply place. It's molded as more or less one piece, so it'll take some work before I can use it...I have to invent some sort of jaw ligament, since I can't have the jaw held on by a fine metal spring, and I'll have to use a fine hacksaw to put some spacing between the teeth. Then there'll be the usual dessicated flesh, yadda yadda yadda.

*yawwwwn* Same ol', same ol'.

"Forgive him Father, he knows exactly what he is doing."

Bishop Longshire, sitting nearly recumbant in a large and very padded chair, held a small ball of felt against the inside bend of his elbow, staunching the flow of blood. The infirmarian, a slight Benedictine monk named Alain, lifted a small stoneware bowl, now full of Longshire's blood, and turned to leave.

( courtesy snip )

"Why do you insist upon drinking from that disgusting thing?"

A gruff voice interrupted Solace's search. He was bent over, peering under a shrub next to his small home, and at the sound of the voice he straightened, his left hand finding support on a gravestone set low to the ground, the bones of his back popping loudly in the quiet of the morning as he bent backwards. His codpiece thrust obscenely in the direction of his visitor, who affected not to notice the affront.

"A little early for you to be about, isn't it, your Grace?" Solace smiled, mischief in his eyes, his free hand massaging the small of his back.( courtesy snip... )

From behind the fence, the stones were restless.

Little bits of dust, undisturbed in nearly ten years by either animal or man, shook loose and fell to the mossy ground about the graves. The names, carefully carved into some of the soft, sandstone faces, shifted a little in the dim light from the window in the sexton's hovel.

The stones were restless. The light hadn't been there a few minutes before.

From inside the hovel came the sound of muttering, an indistinct sleepy sound. The light grew brighter as its source moved or was moved closer to the window. The glazing over the opening was imperfect, the glass itself was dimmed by the smoke of years of cheap candles and fat lamps, and small glimmers slipped out around the edges to caress and soothe the stones' collective distress. The sound resolved to a voice, and the muttering grew a little louder, a splenetic irritability creeping in. The light moved away.

The door to the hovel opened outward, the hinges of the door protesting their stiffness and waking nearby birds from their avian dreams. The light spilled in a rush over the stones, and what little warmth had been inside escaped with relief out of the claustrophobic little shack. The figure in the doorway held a candle in one hand, and something indistinctly spherical in the other. Setting the candle down on the closest stone, he raised the object, pulled a cork from it's apex and held it above his face, turning his open mouth up to drink of the water that poured out of what the moon silhouetted and revealed as a human skull. He closed his mouth and swallowed, turning his head downward and letting the water pour over his head. He lowered the skull, his father's he would have said to anyone who asked (though, oddly, no one ever did), and replaced the cork. He drew his sleeved arm over his face and shook the water out of what remained of his hair.

"Where the shaggin' 'ell," Solace said in a thin Welsh, diluted by long years away from his native home, "did I put that bloody shovel..?"