Ozmick

Ozmick

tag story, unfinished

November 1997

27 years old

From:               Cris VanDyck

To:                    jasala, jkowalski,

Date:                 11/13/97 8:52am

With one rhuemy, bulging eye, Preuntschit Ozmick of Woolsey Bog watched the path for hapless travelers to stumble upon the trail that led to his murky home.  A will‑'o‑the‑wisp flashed nearby, startling him.  He grunted and shook his large, misshapen head. 

He was hungry.  It had been over 300 years since he'd had man‑blood.  Well, that's what he got for oversleeping.  He picked his nose and decided that grubs and berries would have to suffice, until he could snag a pink fleshy human.  The feistier, the better. 

He pulled his finger from his nose and popped it into his reeking maw.  His mouth watered and saliva dripped in thick bands from his teeth at the thought of succulent game and the satisfaction of a good hunt.  Scratching his backside, he settled deeper within the deadfall in which he was ensconced.  He was prepared to wait for as long as it took. 

Lucky for Preuntschit, however, his wait would not be long.

From:               Jack Kowalski

To:                    CVanDyck

Date:                 11/15/97 9:21am

For no sooner had he swallowed the mass he had pulled fresh from his nose, than he spied a maiden walking fearfully, carefully, hurryingly along the path through the woods he inhabited. A maiden of no little attractiveness ‑‑ soft auburn hair falling to her shoulders, an unmatched complection on an astonishingly lovely face, an ankle length ivory linen gown and beautiful black velvet bustier, packin' a pair of 38s you wouldn't f‑‑‑in' believe... He sunk lower in his hiding place, agitatingly trying to determine the best method of surprising and overpowering her, His blood raced, pounded, literally throbbed within his sickeningly malformed head and throughout his ugly body. Drool wetted the front of his jerkin and his rolling, excited, bloodshot eye threatened to pop from its very socket. Suddenly, with his stomach churning, he realized he had forgotten his concealed weapons permit in his other, charcoal gray‑with‑ a‑thin‑white‑pinstripe  pants. A curse of appalling filthiness passed his lips...

CC:                   JAsala

From:               Cris VanDyck

To:                    Jkowalski

Date:                 11/21/97 3:02pm

Subject:           Installment #3

...A curse of apalling filthiness passed his lips.

The maiden's tentative progress faltered, briefly, before picking up her pace.  She knew she should have turned right at the fork in the road instead of left!  That addle‑brained, dimwit of a ceorl gave her the wrong directions to the festival!  If she ever got back alive, she'd have that serf soundly thrashed.  But for the moment, she was hopelessly lost in this awful, awful forest, with no apparent way out.

Clarice continued onward, the rotting leaves and other nameless things squishing softly beneath her doeskin riding boots.  She now regretted her decision to wear them, recalling the argument with her nurse over the wisdom of sensible footwear, assuring the well‑meaning, if overbearing old woman that Clarice's feet would be just fine.  What was sore feet, after all, when one stood the chance of running into Prince Rupert at festival this day? 

Forgetting her surroundings, Clarice lost herself in the fantasy of meeting the handsome young man.  She saw herself walking through the crowded streets, looking at the wares of the many merchants set up along the lanes.  A pretty trinket caught her eye, sparkling and glittering temptingly in the sunlight.  "What a pretty ring..." she sighed to herself.  She reached for it, but before she could take it in hand, another lifted it up for inspection. 

"I'll take this," said the masculine voice beside her. 

The merchant looked up at the plain‑clad man and his eyes narrowed.  "I'm sorry, sir, but that is much too expensive for the likes of you." 

"I think, sir," said the man, "that you do not know as much as you think you do.  I said, I'll take the ring."  The man, who was tall and carried himself with a soldier's strength, bent forward and peered intently at the merchant. 

The merchant swallowed nervously, and handed the ring back to the man.  "Very well, my lord.  I'm sorry.  I did not recognize you."  They completed the transaction, but not before Clarice had turned and disappeared in the crowd. 

As the day drew to a close, Clarice gathered her purchases securely beneath her arm, and headed for the gates of the village.  She heard a commotion behind her, someone shouting for another to halt.  Determined to find her way home before the sun disappeared, Clarice ignored the potential distraction and continued forward.

As she reached the gate, a hand reached out and turned her around.

"Do you not have ears, lass?  I've been calling you and you ignore me!" 

Clarice found herself facing the man who bought the ring.  "Perhaps, sirrah, if you had called me by name, I would have turned in response.  But seeing that I know you not at all, I really have no reason to respond to such a boorish sort as yourself.  Please unhand me."

The man's face fell into an expression of surprise, then amusement.  He smiled, somewhat crookedly, she thought, and said, "Why, mistress, you do not know who I am!"  He was clearly entertained by the young woman's naivete'.

"No, sir, I do not."

His face sobered and he took her hand in his.  "My lady, this I bought for you."  Onto her finger he slipped the ring she had admired only hours before.  "My name is Prince Rupert." 

She gasped and took in his regal bearing beneath the plainness of his raiment.  She was indeed looking upon a royal entity.  Clarice opened her mouth to issue forth words of contrition, but before any were voiced, the prince drew her close.  He lowered his head toward hers, and...

Clarice suddenly found herself sprawled on the damp ground, her foot painfully caught in a tangle of fallen branches.  Cursing herself for forgetting herself, she sat up and rubbed her foot, scanning the path before her.  It was growing darker, and quickly.  To her left, she heard a covert rustling noise.  Rising slowly, she peered into the undergrowth from the safety of the road ("If anyone can rightly call this a road," she complained to no one in particular), and met another pair of eyes ‑‑ or rather one eye and a grotesque abscess where another eye once had been ‑‑ within the dark recesses of the forest. "Oh dear," she thought.  "This cannot possibly be good."