A/n/disclaimer I do not like own any of the words used herein, This idea just sort of came to me one night after my ritual like the droplet of blood after a scab you know? this is a continuation of a worrying theme I have like found to be in the literature,, and i expect no monetary gains,,,readn'reveiw plz ;]
"Is it not a sublime thing, what I, the lord of grantham do?" gesticulated Lord Grant-ham, his forearms eclipsed by the les majeste of his cufflinks.
"What is it that you do milord?" opined his toadstool Baytes.
"The young Matthew Crawley, he of the boyish neckline, has been invited by my invitation to dine-" the peculiar stress of his syllables bespoke his german parentage "-with us this evening"
"As you know, our Crawley coven has been ravished these past few days by the scourge of the interbellum-" Bates apologetically dropped the other cufflink, and as they both stooped to retrieve it, their hands met and timidly brushed together. For a forbidden instant, they were reunited in the more than merely brotherly bond they had shared in the African campaign; the biblical sense of longing for that time remained an unspoken temptation in the ionized air.
"Let us speak no more of this, Battes" rattled off Grant-ham, permitting his servant to straighten his vest was the only consolation he offered.
"mary is nearly full-grown for the priestesshood and requires her first host" he resumed, "oh we will mold the neophytic matthew like aged cheese, Bates, we will turn him into one of us and then we will entail his fortune and his life force, crocheting him to the ancient curse of the abbey"
"Very good mlord" retired baits. "shall I lay out your entrapment necktie or will the one knitted of south african pygmie fat serve you in better stead?"
"The fiddly ones, bates, we wouldn't want matthew to become suspicious"
The abbey bustled with preparations for the debutante. Everything from the drawing room curtains to the dissidents in the under-dungeon had been replaced, and the icy coolant which had become the blood of Mary was hotting up.
"Do I have to wear black, again" minced she, the syllables like fresh ginger grated over her cardinal tongue.
Her words, drawn by the pressure imbalance created by the vacuity of her chamber-maid found a home in the aforementioned head, and she sprung to life.
"Milady, you are new high-priestess, one day you shall be abess of this abbey, do not they wear black"
"Well you may be right of course," she posed, admiring the fissures forming in the once holy mirror, it being unable to countenance the evil of her features. Black was such an atrocious colour, much too cheery, she mused. Better to have something a bit darker, a colour that would cause eye-ball rupturing adherence to her lithesome form.
She thought back to her first culling, how the blood had tasted of fine rosets: the blood of viscounts was peerless. Yay, she had harvested Eveland Napier's life essences and those of his mysterious foreign camel pamook. The thought of those ennobled capillaries anchored her mind to passed memories.
She had met the adonis-physiqued napier at the weekly hunt. Fox -hunting being outlawed, he had agreed to the substitution of the few debtors who could still put up a good pace.
How pamook's and napiers eyes had twinkled at each other at the prospect of the sport, their pupils eyeing eachother with expansion not seen since the early days of the universe.
"I took him on as a duty, but I find I liked him more and more the more intimately I knew him" Napeier had fumbled, the hairs on his knuckles rising with the polarizing cloud of pamook's scent. "Oh I do hope you see his many fine qualities" Napeier had rambled about his pungent friend.
"His personality is dandified" he explained "so there is no need for further training, his skin: exoctically jaundiced by the enigmatic foreign suns; as for his teeth, none of this wide orthodontic mishmash you see so often, perfectly aligned they are. And I positiverly fetishize his eyelashes." he concluded, giving pamook a friendly pat, which began innocently but flowed lightly down one tightly sinewed haunch, an altogether un-victorian sentiment emanating from the fingertips.
"But, perhaps you see his qualia for yourself," he lambasted, turning at once from genteel hospitality, "It was a mistake to bring him here no matter how gifted he is at riding." His mood turned sour like belligerent cordial.
Her eyes, glazed with the sucrose of boredom, had then flashed; and glamoured as they were by her lightly flushed cheeks, they had fallen into submission.
"Could, I prevail upon you to join us for dinner?" she had explained, as she bit down into the neck of first the fizzy-count and then his mysterious camel, pamook, draining them of their carbonated life-essence and completing her first step in the cycle of inheritance,,,,
"Don't worry mother, I shan't let them change me" elocuted Matthew Crawley as he passed the iron bound gates which demarcated the threshold of the abbey wherein-which his fate, like his fashion sense, remained dubious.
na na na da da bum bum doo doo dee doo doo