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Scene #10
Season of Fate: The McGregor Curse
The Castle, GreyStone, stood tall upon the cliffs of Glen Darvey. It's shadowy outline barely visible beneath the paleness of the quarter moon. Off in the distance thunder rolled in the heavens warning those of mortality to seek shelter. An owl screeched in the darkness as it found it's prey. The bay of a lone wolf seeking its mate could be heard down by the crashing waters of the mighty loch.
'No human in their right mind would be out on a night like this,' thought the lone figure standing in the tower window overlooking the loch below. 'Twas a night of mischief, the beginning of the great upheaval. Soon the moon would be full and then heaven help them all.' he sighed heavily, setting down his glass of wine.
Softly there came a knock on the thick wooden door that kept this room sacred from the rest of the household. Not many knew of his sacred space and those that did, rarely interrupted him when he was here.
"Yes?" he answered solemnly, wishing for just a few more hours of solitude.
"Tis time, milord," an old man peered through the portal.
"All ready? Can it not wait a wee bit longer, Thomas?"
"I'm afraid not, sir." the old butler stated with assurance as he held the door open for his lord.
"Verra well, then, Thomas, lead the way to the slaughter." his lordship mumbled disagreeably, as he walked out of the room and into the softly lit hallway.
"I wish you would not think of it in those terms, milord. Gives one a chill, it does."
"Sorry, Thomas, I'm just in one of those moods. Perhaps it will improve before the night is over." his lordship stated as he followed his man down the long winding staircase to the third floor landing and then down two more flights of stairs before music could be heard on the ground floor.
Before going any further, the lord of the manor stopped in the shadows and peered over the railing to the ground floor of his home. He hated these gatherings. He felt they were a waste of his time, but knew they were expected of him. He had vowed to never marry, although that was a well guarded secret. The general populace did not know that fact, so he must keep up appearances. But if he could but stay to himself he was sure that soon, he would be able to figure things out. But alas, that was not meant to be. Eventually he would have to choose, as he always had to choose, in order to keep his secret from leaking out. Somehow he knew if he did not choose, then they would find out and his family would be forfeit. He could not in good conscious let that happen no matter how he dreaded evenings such as these.
The ground floor was littered with dozens of his neighbors all vying for his attentions for their daughters. 'If they only new the truth,' he thought as he watched them closely. They milled around the foot of the grand staircase, waiting like vultures to feast upon his weary soul. How much longer would he have to endure these sad proceedings before they would finally loosen their talons from his flesh?
He heard the soft wails of a waltz drift from the adjoining ballroom and caught glimpses of fair ankles as the maids were twirled in unison to the soft ditty. The great vestibule was littered with benches with soft cushions for his guests to rest upon. But their eyes seemed to drift more often than not toward the grand staircase.
He had to admit, that it was one of his favorite features of his home. The stately white marble rose up to twelve extra wide steps then stopped into a landing. Then from either side of the landing the stairs rose up another twelve stately steps each to yet another landing on either side that encircled the whole of the upper hallway.
The top part of the railing was mahogany wood that had been honed to the brilliance of a mirror as it encircled the stairs in all its glory. The mahogany parquet of the floor in the vestibule mirrored the railing. Yes, he liked showing off his worth in front of these lechers. It made his status known to them without having to say a word. 'Fools, the lot of them,' he thought with contempt, his outrage barely contained within his soul.
"Milord?" Thomas asked, stopping at the top of the stairs.
Taking a deep breath, the lord of the manor, nodded slightly and Thomas descended to the lower landing.
"My lord and ladies! May I introduce to you, Lord Shamus McGregor! Thirteenth lord to the house of McGregor!"
Thomas spoke loudly and clearly, bowing as his lord descended to the landing.
All eyes were on Shamus as he stood before them, waiting for him to speak. The power he felt over them at that moment was astounding, making his blood run hot and heavy with the headiness of it. Outwardly he smiled with warmth that did not reach his stone gray eyes. He could feel the surge of command raging through his veins as he desperately tried to control it. His unruly dark hair curled at the nap of his neck while one lone lock fell boyishly over his forehead. He had been told its color was the rich color of sable, soft as the down upon the pillows in which he laid his head. He shuddered involuntarily with the ravishes of his soul. 'Twas only a quarter moon tonight. He still had time.
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