Heavy gears and cogs ground seamlessly, endlessly into one another. The rhythmic churning was so like a heartbeat- steady, pounding, pumping- natural in its processes. Yet, the metal itself was cold and sharp. Its' sound was impossible; it could only be heard in dreams, dispelled by the act of opening one's eyes.
Everything there lived and breathed by the tick, tick, ticking of the massive clockworks. A sound or rather the ghost of a sound could be heard. It eased through the tunnels, like a whisper through an ear canal. Drums. Faint and then loud and terrible. And wonderful.
A solitary breath slowly exhaled. A long finger slowly, sensuously caressed the cold metal. The single breath was accompanied by a whisper:
"Jumanji."
With a metallic click, Herr Ludwig Von Richtor shut his gold-pocket watch. It was precisely two minutes to Low Tea Time. He sat in his parlor, next the short tea table. Of course, if Herr Von Richtor had been inclined to less propriety, he might have stood for his tea.
He was a large man: broad shoulders, large chest, sturdy, muscular legs. Large men were not built to sit at tiny tables, eating from bone-china plates of dainty sandwiches and sweet dainties, nor drinking from bone-china cups. Tiny things were not made for him either.
He was, first and foremost, a gentleman. So such thoughts of 'comfort' or 'absurdity' of fragile little things enclosed in meaty-fists were banished.
The maid came in, carefully putting her load down on the table. She efficiently set out his saucer, then cup, then teaspoon. The scones and sandwiches sat upon their little tower next to him. The tea (strong, black, a man's tea) was poured out. He took no cream nor sugar. She bustled back through the door leaving him to drink his tea.
Sipping his tea Herr Von Richtor mentally went over the things to be done that day. After Tea, he would smarten up, yank back on his boots and walk south. A leopard's tracks, still fresh, he'd spotted earlier that day. So far, the creature had alluded him. Not for long. He was a professional.
After consuming one scone and two sandwiches, he rose. He looked out the window. Past the boundaries of his home, lay the jungle. The jungle's tree-line could just be made out from his vantage- greener than green. It was a particular green he had seen no-where else in his travels.
He'd been to Africa, nearly the whole continent in fact. The greens he'd seen there were nothing compared to this green. Artists, like the one who had painted one of his (many) hunting scenes on the parlor walls, could have mixed paints for a lifetime and never gotten it right.
Of course, this was of no surprise, he thought, smirking. This was Jumanji.