The lambent flames of the burning candles flickered in the dark gloom of the underground cellar. Dank, heavy air permeated the dwelling, and the rotten, pervasive smell of death loomed ever near in the sinister atmosphere. Spilling out onto a slab of stone that served as a table, a bloody cadaver lay in the inert fashion of a corpse, putridly bloated as the decadence of time decayed the rotting flesh.
Slowly, carefully, with the trained hands of an experienced physician, a cloaked figure drew a knife along the bloated stomach of the corpse, his long, deft fingers a pallor of white against the dried blood. A mask protected the sinister figure from the rising stench as he sliced open the bowels of the body. White, bony fingers probed the stinking flesh, impatiently brushing aside flies and other such insects as they gorged upon the heap of bone and tissue.
The figure's mask was a sinister liking of a great-beaked bird, the menacing avian beak a hooked and crooked protrusion from a crafted metal mask. Instruments of horror lined the walls, and blood and water mixed as each dripped onto the floor, forming rivulets on the uneven flooring and pooling at the feet of the robed man. Behind him glinted shelves upon shelves of jars and bottles, filled with the macabre fruits of his efforts. Specimens and small animals and pieces of other organisms filled these containers.
In a fit of rage at his unsuccessful endeavors, the man screamed in anguish, swiping at jars and tools and specimens, and they crashed onto the floor among the severed limbs of many such experiments. Glass shattered as liquids and body parts oozed out of the broken jars. His head fell, and the figure leaned against the stone slab in frustration as he stood among the death and destruction. He muttered to himself, his quick, jerking movements betraying his passions.
"Why?" he asked the desecrated body before him. "Why won't it work?"
The bloated face gave no answer.
He paced back and forth, and his hood fell back to reveal a shock of shaggy black hair in need of attention, revealing a strap that held the mask to his face. He reached up and tore at his hair, unhooking the strap, and the mask fell about his neck. He revealed a surprisingly normal face, with the finely cut features of an attractive young man. His pale blue eyes watered, but his high cheekbones and dark brows made his face almost appealing, save the stark circles under his eyes and unkempt state of his unruly hair.
"It's all because of her!" he cried, halting his steps and peering closely at a jar containing the preserved body of a frog, its mouth frozen agape in a grotesque smile.
"You laugh!" he mocked, "But you, frog, are both dead and in a jar, so who's laughing now?"
He looked at the frog more closely, cocking his head and blinking rapidly in a birdlike manner that likened him to his mask. Furrowing his brow, his face fell as he answered, "Still you I suppose, for I am talking to you after all."
The man spun about abruptly, turning to yet another jar containing a severed ear. "Perhaps I'm mad," he slowly said to it, "because there's no one here to listen!" He fixed his gaze on the ear, blinking rapidly as his eyes watered, and he laughed manically at his own macabre humor.
His shoulders slumped when he received no reply, and he had no mouth in a jar to provide an answer. Placing his hand on the wall for support, he leaned and hung his head in despair as his humor fled him.
"But it wasn't always like this was it?" he asked the floor. "No," was his laconic reply to himself. "Not before she ruined everything." He clenched his fist as waves of emotions flowed over him.
"I was above it all," he muttered to himself, his fingers curling and uncurling as his face twitched. "I was there. Once, once…and now my work…" He sneered in contempt. "Fruitless," he spat, his pale blue eyes disappearing under tightly shut lids.
Silence followed. Flies buzzed and blood and water dripped along the stone.
Suddenly, a deep bestial scream rose up within the cloaked man, a ferocious growl that ripped out of his throat and manifested as a crecendoing, uncontrollable sound conveying his unbridled resentment.
His bloodstained hands reached out for a knife, and with animal like dexterity, he leaped at the bloated cadaver, stabbing it repeatedly in a frenzy, his black hair flying about as his eyes crazily darted back and forth, almost unaware of the carnage his hands and body exacted as he mangled the decaying flesh. Eventually, his body slowed at the exertion, his stabs becoming less and less fervent. The shadow he cast on the decrepit walls was soon still.
Exhausted by the vehemence of his endeavors, he slumped back, looking down at the pool of flesh and bone he now sat in. This is my work, he thought bitterly to himself. And then he remembered its paramount importance. The fact that he must go on. For himself. For the world. For her.
He slowly dismounted the slab, his robes now soiled. Wiping the blood and organic matter from his face with an equally contaminated sleeve, he began to resume his work, beginning with the cleaning up of his workspace. He moved with newfound purpose, completely unperturbed by the erratic nature of his behavior.
"Yes," he said to himself, "I will go on. I will make this bigger than myself and the cause. I will…" he muttered, trailing off and resuming his macabre work as night fell in around him.
Oh yes, his work would continue. He was determined. Obsessed even. And not even sorcerers or kings could stop him.