
Originally Posted by
Anne Marie
The mallet was the only sound in the otherwise quiet workshop. The rise and fall of the wooden hammer contrasted against the noise of heavy rainfall striking the cobblestones outside. Where I stood in the front room, watching the craftsman finish my commissioned piece, the light from the burning candles threw the artisan’s shadow into a twisting monstrosity on the back wall. A trick from the multiple light sources or, far more likely, the witching sight showed me the true measure of the frail man hunched over his work.
“It’s almost done,” his dry voice rasped, stirring the fine wood shavings across the work table. With a gnarled hand he beckons me over to view his handiwork. “To your specifications, I believe?”
He passes the puppet into my hands, its ball-jointed limbs clattering like dried bones. I hold the toy doll carefully, my eyes roving over the well-carved limbs and slender body. I inhale sharply when I look at the curve of the face. “It should be more sharply defined,” I snap. “Here and here.” The chin and cheekbones; they did not measure true to my memory.
“Begging your pardon, but I worked this piece to the exact details you provided.” The craftsman took the notes he had carefully worked from and thrust them into my face. “Whatever you see, it’s in your mind. I’ve worked my trade for years. Never once has anyone complained about the skill of my artistry.”
“I am not just anyone,” I growl in return, knocking his arm aside. He smells of Death, a side-effect to his trade. His gargoyle of a shadow curls back on itself when I quickly look up, then stills to what is should affect itself to be.
“Payment,” he snaps, his moss-coloured eyes alight at the prospect of money.
“Indeed,” I reply, carefully placing the puppet back down. Its glass eyes, the amber of the irises a faithful translation from the actual model, gazed blankly at the dark ceiling. The rain drummed harder on the roof, a quickening rhythm where all noise was lost under it. I sifted through my drawstring purse for the necessary coins.
“I admit to being curious about this commission,” the old man mused, readily accepting the silver pieces. Inquisitiveness, like his age, has gotten the better of him. Wrinkles marr his face and age spots blemish his skin. Unlike the puppet, alabaster white. Pristine. Utterly perfect. “What is this for?”
I grin wickedly, picking up the puppet once more. “What do you know of soul transference?”
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